Galdrastafir
by CrimsonLotus137
Summary: Iceland had no idea how the hell he got into this situation. When Denmark decides to sign Iceland up for a magic school (without telling Norway), he naturally chooses Hogwarts in Scotland. When Iceland arrives at Hogwarts, he has no idea what to expect. Now faced with the return of a Dark Wizard and keeping his status as a nation secret, what is the licorice loving Iceland to do?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note  
**

 **I would like to state that in researching how to start this story, I did some light research on diplomatic relations with Iceland (cough wikipedia cough), since I didn't think I could do the standard talk with England or something since I imagine he would still be pissed off about the Cod Wars. If you don't like how I did this, deal with it because I gave up at some point since foreign relations between countries is not necessarily top-notch entertainment. If you want to know why Iceland in this story is closer to Denmark than he is Norway, it's because according to Hetalia cannon (that I could find, I don't own the manga or the anime, and none of my local libraries have any Hetalia stuff so most of my Hetalia knowledge is from the internet anyways), Denmark raised Iceland, which I think would make him a sort of father figure or big brother to Iceland. My second reason for this is because in looking at the diplomatic relations between Iceland and other Nordic nations, it seems (from what I could find) that Iceland has better diplomatic ties with Denmark than with Norway. I couldn't find much information for Sweden or Finland, as they were the ones I originally planned to send Iceland to Hogwarts in this story, but whatever. Plus I kind of like the idea of Iceland being BFF's with Denmark. Just imagine what they could do together.**

 **Also, for any foreign language spoken/written in this story, I pass the phrase(s) through google translate or something several times to make sure it's as accurate as possible. If anybody who speaks Icelandic or Danish or anything finds anything wrong with my Google Translate writing, let me know and I will fix it :)**

 **WARNING: Language, really bad writing, inaccurate Icelandic and Danish, and what is probably really inaccurate information of Icelandic culture/cuisine.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Harry Potter.**

* * *

Iceland had no idea how the _fuck_ he got into this situation.

He was sitting in front of an old wooden desk in an old wooden chair in an old castle that looks like it's from ye olde Scotland. Oh yes, don't forget the old man in an old wooden chair (it looked more like a throne), and the old books and old trinkets lined the walls. Basically everything in the room was old. The youngest looking thing in the room (besides himself) was Denmark (who was probably older than anything else in the room), who was seated next to him, his arms crossed over his chest and a heavy glare was set upon the old man. It was almost uncomfortable to see Denmark acting so serious, since it was such a huge contradiction to the Dane's normal cheery, oblivious and humorous personality (even though Iceland knew Denmark purposefully ignored the atmosphere).

"I need you to swear that you _will not_ tell Norway about this," Denmark said lowly, staring at Dumbledore, not blinking or breaking eye contact. Iceland had been watching the exchange in fascination, since because of his isolation from the rest of the world for the majority of his decently long life (for a nation, that is), nothing really interesting happened at his place.

Like, unless you think having the Black Plague in the very early fifteenth century (leaving him writhing in agony at night. He would take care of the other Nordics, since their outbreaks were much worse than his was, plus he already had it, so what the hell) and at the end of the fifteenth century when literally nobody else had it (the other Nordics only came in to give him food in order to avoid catching it [but they didn't know at the time it was spread by weird flies]. He could understand why, he wold put his citizens first as well) and a volcano erupting and killing a fifth of your population and making the rest of Europe hate you in 1783 counts. But Iceland prefers to digress, all the situations were painful as hell for him.

"I swear," Dumbledore responded, nodding solemnly. Denmark sighed a breath of relief before his carefree smile returned to his face. If seeing the Dane serious was uncomfortable to Iceland, it was even more disturbing to see how easily he could go from being serious as hell to not giving a single shit about anything.

"Good, because Norway would kill me if he found out I was sending Icey here to a school in Great Britain," Denmark gave a bright grin as he ruffled Iceland's hair. Iceland whacked his hand away, only for his head to become Denmark's elbow rest. He hated being short. "So I drop him off at that Grim-someting Place in a week or so?"

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place, yes." Dumbledore spared a glance out the window, seeing the red summer sun settling down for the night, casting beautiful shades of red, orange, yellow and pink that danced across the grounds of Hogwarts. "Since it seems to be getting dark outside, how would you two like to stay for the night and go home in the morning?"

"Sure!" Denmark exclaimed enthusiastically. "Whatt'ya say Icey?" Iceland's eye twitched. Don't get him wrong, he loved Denmark, he was kind of his main parental/brotherly figure throughout most of his life, but sometimes, Denmark was just an idiot. Plus he didn't have lines separating the bike lane from the sidewalk, which was stupid and dangerous, no matter how many times Denmark tried to convince him it was normal. It was not normal.

"My name is Iceland, not Icey. And you already accepted before you asked my opinion," Iceland snapped, whacking Denmark's arm off of his head, glaring at said nation, who just gave him a shit-eating grin. Yeah. He loves Denmark, but Iceland just can't help but hate him sometimes (but the hate isn't really genuine). He returned his gaze to Dumbledore, "If we are going to stay the night, would you mind if we could also attend the final task of your Triwizard Tournament tomorrow?" Denmark instantly jumped on the idea.

"PLEASE LET US STAY! IKEA IS HAVING A SALE TOMORROW AND IF SWEDEN CAN'T FIND US HE CAN'T MAKE US GO WIH HIM!" Dumbledore chuckled at the Dane's desperation. Iceland internally cursed Denmark for causing a scene (even if no one was around to see or hear the ruckus [except for the weird moving portraits on the wall]), and thanked him for giving them an actual excuse to watch the Triwizard Tournament (besides saying 'because it sounds cool').

"Of course. If you would like to accompany me to dinner?"

* * *

Maybe it might have been a better idea to go shopping at IKEA with Sweden.

Iceland watched in horror as one of the Hogwarts champions (Parry Farter or something) came back with the other Hogwarts champion. This would all be fine and dandy if said other champion wasn't _dead_. Normally Iceland didn't really give a shit about seeing dead bodies (his country had the black plague twice and multiple volcanic eruptions that _decimated_ his population, how could he not be used to dead bodies?), but there was something about seeing a fourteen year old kid screaming and crying over the dead body of someone who had apparently just been killed by some evil British overlord who had killed the first kid's parents ( _'You don't say'_ Iceland thought to himself cynically). That was some serious mind shit people.

And now the second kid's (Cedric something or another) father had come rushing onto the field to see his dead son. _Definately_ different from the bodies Iceland had seen in his time. Generally whenever he saw a dead body in the past, either the parents were already dead or it was a time where people were generally expected to die pretty quickly anyways (Black Plague and volcanoes. Litlu tíkur.). Sometimes the parents or friends just weren't around. This... This was just heartbreaking. His heart clenched as the parents of the Cedric kid shook the body, searching for any sign that Cedric was still alive, even though their efforts were clearly futile and in vain. Denmark let out a puff of air before standing up and resting his hand on Iceland's head.

"I think it's about time that we take our leave, Emil," he said, avoiding looking at the scene in front of them. Iceland half-heartedly pushed Denmark's hand off of his head and nodded mutely, following closely behind the Dane as they left. Iceland spared a glance back at the sobbing family. His heart lurched again. no matter how many times he looked at that scene, he would always be at the verge of starting to cry hysterically himself. But he was a Nation, showing weakness around those you didn't trust was not an option. A single thought ran through his head as he turned back and ran to catch up with Denmark.

 _You have no control who lives, who dies, who tells your story._

* * *

"You ready Icey?" Denmark asked, picking up Iceland's only suitcase like it was nothing (disadvantages of not having an army 101).

"Iceland. Not Icey. And yes, I'm ready," Iceland replied tiredly. It wasn't that he had to get up early for a time zone difference o anything (Reykjavík and London were in the same time zone), he had just been tossing and turning all night with the realization that he would be living off of _British food_ for the next year (with small two or three week breaks in between). It was truly a nightmare to behold.

"Then allons-y!" Denmark exclaimed. Iceland wasn't sure when Denmark had started watching Doctor Who (since he was fairly sure that Denmark had never really enjoyed anything that England made). Denmark held out his hand for Iceland to take, which he did with an exasperated expression on is face. It was quickly switched out for a shocked (and slightly pained) one as Denmark grabbed his hand tight and turned on his feet, resulting a loud _Crack!_

Iceland felt as if he was being forced and stretched through a long metal tube lined with needles and knives, and that his stomach was lying on the floor back in Reykjavík (which he would find out, much to his disgust, that that could have actually happened). The world seemed to warp around him, blurring field of view into an indistinguishable canvas of shapes and colors (probably painted with water color though, that stuff will always mingle when you paint with it) When his feet returned to the ground (stomach still missing, unfortunately), he collapsed to his knees and took heavy gulps of air, ignoring the large, creepy, dark house around him.

"Þakka þér herra að láta mig lifandi, ó þakka Guði!" He kissed the floor in appreciation. He had perfectly fine sea legs (his diet does contain a shitload of fish, and he has to get the fish from somewhere), but that excruciating experience he just went through was almost enough for him to swear off ever leaving the ground again. Key word is almost there, he ain't giving up seafood! (plus he has to get to world meetings somehow) "Guð minn almáttugur, ég trúi varla að ég sé enn á lífi!" Iceland looked around at the old house, and glared at Denmark. "Hvað í alvöru fjáranum Danmörk? Þú hefði getað drepið mig!" Denmark just laughed heartily at him as a girl with bushy brown hair and a tall boy with bright red hair came rushing (more like stomping though, their footsteps were _loud_ ) down the stairs, and a plump women who was probably the boy's mother came rushing into the front room form what seemed to be the kitchen.

"Du vil være fint Island. Det hedder Genfærd, det er enform for magisk rejse," Denmark glanced at the three who had entered the room and gave them a dazzling smile and a wave before returning his attention to Iceland, who was still gagging for breath, collapsed on the floor (he would later claim that he was just hugging the floor which... is actually a fairly reasonable excuse considering what had just happened). "Nu får op og introucere dig selv."

"Hálviti" Iceland growled under his breath as he stood up and brushed himself off. Iceland didn't know it was possible for _anything_ to be this dusty. A thick layer of said substance clung to his jacket, pants and white boots (which now looked a dark shade of gray). Iceland looked at the ground to see what was quite possibly a centimeter or two of dust and cobwebs (he would tell the depth by glancing at the area he had just been laying in). Iceland's lungs decided this would be a delightful time to start hacking up all the dust he had in inhaled, a dark plume of it escaping from his mouth. _'Oh great, if there was boiling blood in there too, it would be a volcanic eruption. Yippee,'_ Iceland thought to himself.

"Jeg høtre, at lillebror," Denmark said in a sing-song voice as he thumped Iceland's back, which was very close to doing more harm than good (what could he say, he was kind of weak [disadvantages of not having an army 201]). The way he said it annoyed the hell out of Iceland, who kicked his shin. Denmark didn't even twitch (disadvantages of not having an army 301).

"Æ, þeigiðu!" Iceland hissed before straightening his ribbon tie (also carefully dusting it off to avoid making his coughing worse) and facing the three who had been watching the scene in interest and confusion (probably confusion, I mean, two strangers they don't even know in weird clothing had 'Apparated' into their front room and were talking in Danish and in Icelandic [a language thats was like two steps away from being old norse]). "Halló, My name is Emil Steilsson and this is my older half-brother Mathias Køhler," Denmark gasped and dropped Iceland's suitcase to swoop the owner up in a hug.

"Árans!" Iceland exclaimed, only having just recovered from his lungs almost being freakishly large dust bunnies themselves (at least it wasn't a Russia hug. Now _those_ hurt like hell).

"Emmy! You finally called me big brother!" Denmark crooned, rubbing his cheek against Iceland's. Iceland wriggled around, kicking his legs trying to get out of the Dane's bone-crushing hug. He could have sworn he heard his ribs crack (he checked them later, and they were all fine).

(Surprisingly).

"My name is Emil! Not Emmy! And I did not call you big brother, I simply stated our familial relation!" Iceland screeched trying to kick Denmark into letting him go, but to no avail (disadvantages to not having an army 401). Iceland was never sure if Denmark gave him those nicknames in affection (and was completely oblivious to how they annoy the crap out of him), or if he knew how much they annoyed him and called him 'Emmy' or 'Icey' just to annoy him.

"CLOSE ENOUGH!" Denmark cheered not letting go. Iceland struggled for a little longer before giving up. _'Think Iceland, think. He's not going to let go anytime soon if I struggle, but Denmark probably won't listen to anything I say unless I shout 'IKEA SALE' which would just cause him to turn the house into a barricade, which would be even worse.'_ Iceland sighed before his eyes light up like a light bulb. The three watching the scene couldn't help but be wary of what was going to happen.

"Hey Mathias," Iceland said innocently. He was surprised when Denmark responded without being suspicious of how he went from being pissed as hell to calm so quickly.

"Yes Emmy?" Iceland managed to ignore the nickname enough to give his response. This was a genius (cough cruel cough) idea, and he was not going to ruin it by reacting to some stupid nickname.

"Skinne lyse som en Island," Denmark gasped in horror, letting Iceland drop to the ground. Not only had Iceland taken his catchphrase made it his own, but he had also said it in the Dane's native language, adding insult to injury (actually, in Denmark's eyes, it was more like rubbing salt and vinegar into the gaping hole in his heart that Iceland himself had made). He hugged his knees in the corner as a cloud of gloom surrounded him.

"Skinne lyse liegsom en Danmark. Skinne lyse liegsom en Danmark. Jeg er shiney ret?" Denmark muttered to himself over and over. Iceland chuckled (but deep down he couldn't help but feel slightly bad. He knew how much that would insult the Dane) and looked back at the three humans who looked shocked at how five words could put that Dane in such a mood.

"Sorry about that. I believe a Professor Albus Dumbledore told us to be here?" Iceland said, trying to be as polite as possible. The fire haired woman seemed confused for a second before her face lit up in realization.

"Oh, yes. You must be the transfer student correct?" She asked, instantly starting to fuss over him, sweeping the dust off his clothes and out of his hair. Iceland flushed, not used to much physical contact (disadvantages of living on a volcanic island in he middle of the Atlantic close to nobody 101).

"Yes, I am," Iceland said.

"Well, Emil was it?" Iceland nodded, trying to get rid of the blush on his face (he was a little touch starved, so what? [deep down Iceland is crying]) "My name is Molly Weasley," the Mrs. Weasley said, shaking his hand, "And those two over there are Hermione Granger and my son, Ronald," she gestured to the two who waved politely in turn.

"Pleasure to meet you Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, Ron," Iceland said, giving a small smile as looked at each person as their name came out of his mouth.

"Ronald and Hermione can show you to your room," Iceland nodded before looking at his suitcase. It was heavy (a majority of the contents were books). He looked at Denmark before sighing.

"Mathias." Denmark looked back at him sadly, still depressed. "Skíndu bjart eins og Danmörk." Denmark instantly shot up and grabbed Iceland's suitcase and leaned on the owners shoulder.

"I know, I am the shiniest, amiright?" Denmark said arrogantly. Iceland rolled his eyes before gesturing for Hermione and Ronald to lead the way.

* * *

 _Why_ did Mrs. Weasley think it was a good idea to invite Denmark to stay for dinner? Okay, okay. She probably didn't know Denmark could be ridiculously obnoxious. Probably. Maybe. Was it just out of politeness? Yes, that had to be it! While there were quiet conversations around the table (Iceland and Denmark had been introduced to everybody else earlier), Denmark was repeatedly poking Iceland's cheek chanting 'Skinne lyse liegsom en Danmark,' over and over again. Iceland desperately looked around the table for some kind of salvation from Denmark's torture. He caught George's (or was it Fred?) eye and mouthed 'Help me.' He quirked an eyebrow and hid a smile as he noticed the situation Iceland was in, but gave a subtle nod anyways.

"So Emil, Mathias, where are you two from?" the twins simultaneously asked, Iceland letting out a mental sigh of relief (and a small shudder at how creepily in sync those two were) as Denmark stopped poking his cheek with a 'Hm?'

"I'm from Reykjavík," Iceland answered casually, mentally thanking the twins for saving him from Denmark and praying that these people knew where Reykjavík was (literally nobody he ever talked to outside of Iceland knew that Reykjavík was, much less that it was his capital).

"I'm from Copenhagen!" Denmark proclaimed proudly, puffing out his chest. Iceland rolled his eyes. Hermione, who had started listening to the conversation, nodded.

"I know where Copenhagen is, but where exactly is Reykjavík?" she asked. It was an innocent enough question, but Iceland groaned and slammed his head on the table while Denmark cackled like a hyena. A dying hyena, mind you.

"It's the capital of Iceland," Iceland murmured, lifting his head up from the table. By some miracle, his face had avoided any food and or utensils. His forehead was a bright red, for obvious reasons. Denmark started to calm down, and wiped a tear from his eye.

"Sorry, can you repeat that louder?" he asked, the smirk obvious in his voice. Iceland whacked him over the head. Denmark knew how much it frustrated him when people didn't know his capital.

"It's the capital of Iceland!" said nation growled, barely keeping his voice at an acceptable level. "You know this, Þú helvítis hálfiti!" Denmark wore a look of mock offense.

"I though I taught you to never swear Emmy!" he exclaimed. Iceland gave him a deadpan look.

"Well, you really weren't exactly the best influence, Þú varst víkingur, manstu?" Denmark stood up excitedly as a look of nostalgia crossed his face.

"Du har ret! Og jeg var den bedste viking! SKINNE LYSE LIEGSOM EN DANMARK!" he cheered as he did a weird dance. Iceland sighed and massaged his forehead

"'Ég var besti víkingurinn' segir hann. 'Skíndu bjart eins og Danmörk' hann segir," Iceland muttered. He looked at the rest table. "I am so sorry about him."

"No, it's perfectly alright," Hermione assures him, though Iceland could tell she was slightly confused by Denmark's behavior. The twins were howling in laughter and copying Denmark's dance moves from their seats.

"He's... eccentric."

"Ah," Iceland glanced at Denmark. Time to pull out the ultimate weapon

"Mathias," the Dane turned to look at him, a confused look on his face.

"Ja?"

"Sestu niður og haldu helvítis kjafti núna, eða ég sver til guðs að ég mun segja þeim frá jólakalkúninum," Iceland threated. Denmark turned white and instantly sat in his seat with a _thump_ and quietly continued to eat his dinner. Everybody around the table gaped at the sudden change in the Dane's behavior.

"Mate, what did you _do_?" Ron ("DON'T CALL ME RONALD") asked in disbelief. Iceland barely contained an evil smirk.

"Oh nothing, really, I just threatened to tell you about the time he got sent to the ER beca-" Denmark's hand slapped over his mouth, the Dane's eyes wide.

"DON'T TELL THEM! WHAT HAVE I EVER DONE TO YOU I'VE BEEN NOTHING BUT A GOOD BIG BROTHER TO YOU PLEASE LET ME KEEP MY DIGNITY!" Denmark begged, capturing Iceland in a hug (Iceland still briefly wonder if his ribs were going to break).

"You call running me over with your bike being a good big brother?" Denmark let go and pointed at him accusingly.

"You were standing in the middle of the bike lane!"

"I thought it was the sidewalk!"

"There's a line separating the sidewalk from the bike lane!"

"Where!?"

"It's an unspoken line that you Icelandic weirdos should already know about!"

"It's not my fault your whole country is obsessed with bikes!"

"It's not my fault you don't know how to ride a bike!"

"Guð minn góður." Iceland proclaimed exaspertedly. Denmark focused his attention onto damage control.

"Nothing happened, nothing at all, that's all you need to know!" the Dane exclaimed to disbelieving looks around the table.

"As I was saying," Iceland continued, ignoring Denmark's loud 'NO DON'T DO THIS TO ME', "A couple years back he got sent to the ER because he had a turkey stuck on his head."

"GODDAMN IT EMIL I TRUSTED YOU!"

"How do you get a turkey stuck on your head?" Hermione asked in bewilderment. Iceland let out snicker, before it turned into full on laughter.

"IT WAS NOTHING I JUST HAD SOME VERY SERIOUS CHRISTMAS TURKEY PROBLEMS AND I ENDED UP IN EMERGENCY ROOM!" Iceland laughed even harder.

"LUKAS TOLD ME YOU SHOVED YOUR HEAD IN THE TURKEYS ASS!" the Weasley siblings and Sirius were greatly enjoying the show (and the story).

"NO DON'T SAY IT LIKE THAT I JUST WANTED TO SEE IF I STUFFED THE DAMN THING ENOUGH!"

"WELL I GUESS IT WASN'T ENOUGH BECAUSE YOU SHOVED YOUR HEAD UP ITS ASS!"

"ÅH MIN GUD IT WAS AN ACCIDENT! AND CAN WE MAKE IT CLEAR THAT IT WAS A DEAD, SKINNED, SEASONED TURKEY! I LIFTED IT UP OVER MY HEAD TO SEE IF IT WAS STUFFED AND IT SLIPPED AND FELL ON MY HEAD! I COULDN'T SEE AND THEN I BUMPED INTO A LOT OF THINGS AND GOT A LOT OF BRUISES AND LUKAS FOUND ME AND SENT ME TO THE ER! DO YOU PEOPLE THINK I DO THIS ON PURPOSE!?"

"Yes."

"Don't talk to me I'm not happy right now."

"And you call me a weirdo."

"You are."

"At least I didn't have doctor surgically operate on my turkey head and then saw the light as they removed it as if I was being born again."

"Shut up."

"You're so pathetic, Sve almost laughed. Plus I have your turkey dance on tape."

"NO BURN IT THAT WASN'T A DANCE I WAS DISORIENTATED!" Iceland started laughing again.

"I don't have it on me right now, nor any reason to," Denmark grabbed Iceland's coat in desperation.

"Tell me where it is and I will give you my tape of Berwald getting stuck in a poorly assembled IKEA chair."

"Behind the Brennivín in the cellar," Iceland answered quickly. Blackmail on Denmark was effective, but it was nowhere near the price of dirt on Sweden in the Nordic family. It was the holy grail of blackmail in the eye of Denmark and Iceland (he felt as if the Dane was rather stupid for giving up something so valuable in return for the location of a tape of an event everybody in the nordics knew about). Everybody at the table was staring at them. "What?"

"Blimey, mate, what the hell happens in your family?" Ron asked, wearing the same flabbergasted expression as everybody else at the table. Denmark and Iceland looked at each other, barely containing their laugher.

"Mathias is weird. He uses the most hair gel and tried to teach me how to ride a bike by running me down the sidewalk on one while yelling 'CHILD DEVELOPMENT'. He ran me into a wall. He's my half-brother," Iceland stated, ignoring Denmark's freakish mix of an indignant cry and laughter.

"Lukas is my biological older brother. He has the most common sense out of any of us but if you give him enough alcohol he starts crying over how Mathias pays more attention to his hair than him."

"None of us are related to Tino, but he's basically the mom. He's a mother hen. He's ridiculously nice unless you anger him enough or hurt somebody he cares about. Then you run for the woods. He also doesn't know how to swim and one time when he went to pool party we put in two oversized floaties even though Berwald offered to be Tino's surfboard."

"We're not related to Berwald either, but he is definitely in love with IKEA and it's furniture. He's basically the dad."

"Emil is the pain-in-the-ass teenager."

"Farðu til helvítis."

"And Peter is the kid that Tino and Berwald adopted. He freaked Tino out by describing the IKEA magazines he found underneath his and Berwald's bed." The table was silent. Well, unless you count the twins who were laughing like hyenas and Ginny, who was giggling behind her hand. Denmark leaned over to Iceland and whispered, "Preussen kalder det en Norgy."

Iceland's attempt to not burst out laughing finally failed, because if you knew the context behind the reference, it was hilarious. Only to Prussia and the Nordics (not including Peter) though, Austria and Hungary didn't find it anywhere near as amusing as they did. All in all, it was a good dinner. Maybe this year won't be so bad after all.

* * *

 **Bad chapter is bad. Bad writing is bad.**

 **Litlu tíkur = Littler bitches**

 **Þakka þér herra að láta mig lifandi, ó þakka Guði! = Thank you lord for letting me live, oh thank God!**

 **Guð minn almáttugur, ég trúi varla að ég sé enn á lífi! = My God almighty, I can hardly believe I'm still alive!**

 **Hvað í alvöru fjáranum Danmörk? Þú hefði getað drepið mig**

 **Du vil være fint Island. Det hedder genfærd, det er enform for magisk rejse, = You'll be fine Iceland. It's called Apparition, it is a form of magical travel**

 **Nu får op og introucere dig selv = Now get up and introduce yourself**

 **Hálviti = asshole**

 **Jeg høtre, at lillebror = I heard that, little brother**

 **Æ, þeigiðu = Oh, shut up**

 **Halló - Hello**

 **Árans = Holy shit**

 **Skinne lyse som en Island = Shine bright like an Iceland**

 **Skinne lyse liegsom en Danmark. Skinne lyse liegsom en Danmark. Jeg er shiney ret? = Shine bright like a Denmark. Shine bright like a Denamrk. I'm shiney right?**

 **Skíndu bjart eins og Danmörk = Shine bright like a Denmark  
**

 **Þú helvítis hálfiti! = you goddamn asshole!**

 **Þú varst víkingur, manstu? = you were a viking, remember?**

 **Du har ret! Og jeg var den bedste viking! SKINNE LYSE LIEGSOM EN DANMARK! = You're right! I was the best viking! SHINE BRIGHT LIKE A DENMARK!  
**

 **'Ég var besti víkingurinn' segir hann. 'Skíndu bjart eins og Danmörk' hann segir = 'I was the best viking,' he says. 'Shine bright like a Denmark,' he says**

 **Ja? = Yes?**

 **Sestu niður og haldu helvítis kjafti núna, eða ég sver til guðs að ég mun segja þeim frá jólakalkúninum = Sit down and shut the fuck up right now, or I swear to god I will tell them about the Christmas turkey**

 **Guð minn góður = Oh my god**

 **ÅH MIN GUD = OH MY GOD**

 **Farðu til helvítis = Go to hell**

 **Kudos to you if caught the many aphtextsfromnordics references.**


	2. Chapter 2

Ever since Denmark had left three days ago, Iceland had been up around the clock studying the books of the four previous years that he had borrowed off of Hermione (who was thrilled to finally meet another book enthusiast [surprising advantages of not having to manage a military 101]). After being up for sixty hours straight, he had finally decided to lay off the books long enough to get some sleep (more like Mrs. Weasley demanded he stop studying, Iceland was pretty sure even _Hermione_ was starting to get worried about his study habits). As his head rested on the pillow he knew this rest was going to be supreme bliss. No Norway, no Finland, no Sweden, no _Denmark_ breaking down his front door because he was asleep and didn't hear the doorbell.

"SO YOU HAVEN'T BEEN IN THE MEETINGS, BIG DEAL! YOU'VE STILL BEEN HERE, HAVEN'T YOU? YOU'VE STILL BEEN TOGETHER! ME, I'VE BEEN STUCK AT THE DURSLEY'S FOR A MONTH! AND I'VE HANDLED MORE THAN YOU TWO'VE EVER MANAGED AND DUMBLEDORE KNOWS IT — WHO SAVED THE SORCERER'S STONE? WHO GOT RID OF RIDDLE? WHO SAVED BOTH YOU SKINS FROM DEMENTORS?"

Fucking heads were gonna roll.

Iceland didn't know who was shouting, but they were either drunk or very self-centered, because no mater how bad you have it, someone else always has it worse. As he attempted to calmly walk down the stairs (he couldn't quite keep off the murderous glare, but it was close enough), the person whose screeching had woke him up continued.

"WHO HAD TO GET PAST DRAGONS AND SPHINXES AND EVERY OTHER FOUL THING LAST YEAR? WHO SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE FROM HIM? ME! BUT WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON? WHY SHOULD ANYON BOTHER TO TELL ME WHAT'S BEEN HAPPENING?" Because Dumbledore made them promise not to tell anybody. Idiot. "CAN'T'VE WANTED TO THAT MUCH, CAN YOU, OR YOU'D HAVE SENT ME AN OWL, BUT _DUMBLEDORE MADE YOU SWEAR_ —"

"Well, he did—" in all honesty, Iceland probably opened the door at the worst time possible. Some black haired kid was yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs at Ron and Hermione, who looked like she was ready to start sobbing.

"FOUR WEEKS I'VE BEEN—" the kid was cut off with a solid whack to the head (trademark), courtesy of Iceland.

"Are you done yet?" Iceland asked darkly. The black haired kid turned around to glare at Iceland, and looked ready to start screeching at him, "Some of us are trying to sleep." When the kid opened his mouth, Iceland 'calmly' stuck his hand over the other kids mouth (he didn't need to worry about his hand getting germs on them or anything, he wears gloves everywhere [like Elsa!]). "A persons worth is not dependent on how many dangerous situations they have been in, it's measured differently for each person. Hermione is definitely smarter than you, and Ron clearly has more strategic and tactical skill than you will ever have. All you have is your horrendous voice and luck." As he removed his hand from the kids mouth (who was speechless. Surprise.), he handed a handkerchief to Hermione, who was crying on the floor with Ron trying (and failing) to comfort her. "Now," Iceland started, "can I go back to sleep or this Screech-Fest 1995?" The black haired kid sputtered indignantly. "I'll take that as a yes," Iceland said (sassily, of course [deep down you know Iceland is a sass machine]), and walked away muttering under his breath, "Árans fáviti, vekjandi mig frá mínum verð..."

* * *

Before Iceland could even get to the stairs, he was disturbed by a loud _CRACK!_ that sounded like it was from the room he had just come from.

"HVAÐ Í FJANDANUM!" Iceland spun around and stomped back to the room with the screecher in it, kicking the door in as he yelled, "HVAÐ Í ÓSKÖPUNUM ERUÐ ÞIÐ TVEIR AÐ GERA!" Fred and George just gave him a dazzling smile and waved, acting as if a tiny Icelandic boy had not just kicked an old wooden door off of it's hinges screaming at them in the tongue of the vikings. After Iceland came in through the tatters of the door, a long mane of red hair appeared.

"Oh hello, Emil, Harry!" said Ron's younger sister, Ginny, brightly. "I though I heard your voices."

Turning to Fred and George she said, "It's no go with the Extendable Ears, she's gone and put an Imperturbable Charm on the kitchen door."

"How'd you know?" said George, looking crestfallen.

"Tonks told me how to find out," said Ginny. "You just chuck stuff at the door and if it can't make contact the door's been Imperturbed. I've been flicking Dungbombs at it from the top of the stairs and they just soar away from it, so there's no way the Extendable Ears will be able to get under the gap."

Fred heaved a deep sigh. "Shame. I really fancied finding out what old Snape's been up to."

"Can't you use a Perturbable Charm to reverse the effects of an Imperturbable?" Iceland asked, wanting to know what was going on (being a nation, he was very used to being in on everything in government matters and it irritated him to no end when he didn't know something). Hermione shook her head.

"A Perturbable Charm only works if it's used by an extremely powerful wizard or the person who cast the Imperturbable Charm in the first place casts it."

"Snape?" Harry asked quickly, jumping in to get answers. "Is he here?"

"Yeah," said George, carefully _Reparo_ ed the door and closed it and sitting down on one of the beds; Fred and Ginny followed. Iceland just flopped onto one, and decided to stay awake because dinner would be soon anyways, plus he wanted to hear this. "Giving a report. Top secret."

"Git," said Fred idly. Iceland snorted.

"He's on our side now," said Hermione reprovingly.

Ron snorted. "Doesn't stop him from being a git. The way he looks at us when he sees us..."

"Isn't he the one who looks like an emo forty year old man who doesn't wash his hair, and looks at us as if we killed his mother?" Iceland asked, not opening his eyes. The Weasly's burst out laughing, and Hermione giggled a little. Iceland was pretty sure even Harry would have cracked a smile.

"Yeah, that's him," Ginny said before turning to Hermione. "Bill doesn't like him either," she said, as though that settled the matter.

"Is Bill here?" Harry asked. "I thought he was working in Egypt."

"He applied for a desk job so he could come home and work for the Order," said Fred (Iceland snickered to himself. It rhymed). "He says he misses the tombs, but there are compensations..." Iceland cracked a smile, knowing what they were talking about (he paid attention to the others at meals, and Fred and George would read Bill's letters out loud. It wasn't quite Shakespeare's love sonnets to his boyfriend, but they were quiet amusing to say the least).

"What d'you mean?"

"Remember old Fleur Delacour?" said George. "She's got a job at Gringotts to _eemprove 'er Eeenglish—_ "

"— and Bill's been giving her a lot of private lessons," sniggered Fred. Iceland snorted.

"Charlie's in the Order too," said George, "but he's still in Romania," ' _Romania_ _is definitely a vampire, no matter what Norge tells me_ ,' Iceland thought, "Dumbledore wants as many foreign wizards brought in as possible, so Charlie's trying to make contacts on his days off."

"Couldn't Percy do that?" Harry asked. Iceland tensed. He had only been there a couple of days, but he could tell it was a taboo subject around Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

"Whatever you do, don't mention Percy in front of Mum and Dad," Ron told Harry in a tense voice.

"Why not?"

"Because every time Percy's name's mentioned, Dad breaks whatever he's holding and Mum starts crying," Fred said.

"It's been awful," said Ginny sadly.

"I think we're well shut of him," said George.

"What's happened?" Harry said.

"Percy and Dad had a row," said Fred (Iceland would have snorted if the situation wasn't so depressing. Saying that it was a row [from what he had seen from the Weasly's reactions to his name] was like saying his Katla eruptions slightly damaging. Okay, not quite that much of an understatement, but you get the idea). "I've never seen Dad row with anyone like that. It's normally Mum who shouts..." Iceland was listening, not having been told the story yet/

"It was the first week back after term ended," said Ron. "We were about to come and join the Order. Percy came home and told us he'd been promoted."

"You're kidding?" said Harry.

"Yeah, we were all surprised," said George, "because Percy got into a load of trouble about Crouch, there was an inquiry and everything. They said Percy ought to have realized Crouch was off his rocker and informed a superior. But you know Percy, Crouch left him in charge, he wasn't going to complain..."

"So how come they promoted him?" Iceland asked from his bed, beating Harry to the question. There was a pause, since everybody had forgotten he was there anyways (strangely reminiscent of the world meetings, though Canada definitely had it worse [he wouldn't forget a child he had raised for years]).

"That's exactly what we wondered," said Ron, who seemed very keen to keep normal conversation now that Harry and Emil had stopped yelling. "He came home really pleased with himself — even more pleased that usual if you can believe that — and told Dad he'd been offered a position in Fudge's own office. A really good one for someone only a year out of Hogwarts — Junior Assistant to the Minister. He expected Dad to be all impressed, I think."

"Only Dad wasn't," said Fred grimly.

"Why not?" said Harry.

"Well, apparently Fudge has been storming round the Ministry checking that nobody's having any contact with Dumbledore," said George.

"Dumbledore's name's mud with the Ministry these days, see," said Fred. "They all think he's just making trouble saying You-Know-Who's back."

"Dad says Fudge has made it clear that anyone who's in league with Dumbledore can clear out their desks," said George.

"Trouble is, Fudge suspects Dad, he knows he's friendly with Dumbledore, and he's always though Dad's a bit of a weirdo because of his muggle obsession —"

"But what's this got to do with Percy?" asked Harry, confused. Iceland (who was now sitting up on the bed and resting his head on his knees) gave him a weird look. Wasn't it obvious?

"I'm coming to that. Dad reckons Fudge only wants Percy in office because he wants to use him to spy on the family — and Dumbledore."

Harry let out a low whistle.

"Bet Percy loved that."

Ron laughed in a hollow sort of way.

"He went completely berserk. He said — well he said loads of terrible stuff. He said he's been having to struggle against Dad's lousy reputation ever since he joined the Ministry and that Dad's got no ambition and that's why we've always been — you know — not had a lot of money, I mean —"

" _What_?" said Iceland in disbelief, as Ginny made a noise like an angry puffin.

"I know," said Ron in a low voice. "And it got worse. He said Dad was an idiot to run around with Dumbledore, that Dumbledore was heading for big trouble and Dad was going to go down with him, and that he — Percy — knew where his loyalty lay and it was with the Ministry. And if Mum and Dad were going to become traitors to the Ministry he was going to make sure everyone knew he didn't belong to our family anymore. And he packed his bags the same night and left. He's living here in London now."

Iceland swore under his breath. He might not always like the other Nordics, but they were his family and always there for him no matter what. He couldn't believe this Percy kid would choose the government over his family!

"Mum's been in a right state," said Ron dully. "You know — crying and stuff. She came up to London to try and talk to Percy but he slammed the door in her face. I dunno what he does if he meets Dad at work — ignores him, I s'pose."

"But Percy must know Voldemort's back," said Harry slowly. "He's not stupid, he must know you mum and dad wouldn't risk everything without proof —"

"Yeah, well, your name got dragged into the row," said Ron, shooting harry a furtive look. "Percy said the only evidence was your word and... I dunno... he didn't think it was good enough."

"Percy takes the _Daily Prophet_ seriously," said Hermione tartly, and all the others nodded.

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, looking around at them all. They were all regarding him warily.

"Haven't — haven't you been getting the _Daily Prophet_?" Hermione asked nervously.

"Yeah, I have!" said Harry.

"Have you — er — been reading it thoroughly?" Hermione asked still more anxiously.

"Not cover to cover," said Harry defensively. "If they were going to report anything about Voldemort it would be headline news, wouldn't it?"

The others (minus Iceland, nobody really ever noticed his country so he didn't have to worry about some random dark lord. He didn't really like English cooking anyways, so it wasn't really his problem) flinched at the sound of the name. Hermione hurried on, "Well, you'd need to read it cover to cover to pick it, but they — um — they mention you a couple of times a week."

"But I'd have seen —"

"Not if you've only been reading the front page you wouldn't," Iceland piped up, taking the words out of Hermione's mouth, who continued where he left off.

"I'm not talking about big articles. They just slip you in, like you're a standing joke."

"What d'you —?"

"It's quite nasty actually," said Hermione in a voice of forced calm. "They're just building on Rita's stuff." Iceland wanted to ask who exactly 'Rita' was, but he felt it wasn't the time.

"But she's not writing for them anymore, is she?"

"Oh no, she's kept her promise — not that she's got any choice," Hermione added with satisfaction. "But she laid the foundation for what they're trying to do now."

"Which is _what_?" said Harry impatiently.

"Okay, you know she wrote that you were collapsing all over the place and saying that your scar was hurting and all that?"

"Yeah," said Harry.

"Well, they're writing about you as though you're this deluded, attention-seeking person who thinks he's a great tragic hero or something," said Hermione, very fast, as though it would be less unpleasant for Harry to hear those facts quickly. "They keep slipping in snide comments about you. If some far fetched story appears they say something like 'a tale worthy of Harry Potter' and if anyone has a funny accident or anything it's 'let's hope he hasn't got a scar on his forehead or we'll be asked to worship him next —"

"Ú, grimmt," Iceland muttered.

"I don't want anyone to worship —" Harry began hotly.

"I know you don't," said Hermione quickly, looking frightened. "I _know_ , Harry. But you see what they're doing? They want to turn you into someone nobody will believe. Fudge is behind it, I'll bet anything. They want wizards on the street to to think you're just dome stupid boy who's a bit of a joke, who tells ridiculous tall stories because he loves being famous and wants to keep it going."

"I didn't ask — I didn't want — _Voldemort killed my parents!_ " Harry spluttered ( _'No, really?'_ Iceland found himself thinking, even though he knew it was _not_ the time). "I got famous because he murdered my family but couldn't kill me! Who wants to be famous for that? Don't they think I'd rather it's never —"

"We _know_ , Harry," said Ginny earnestly.

"And of course, they didn't report a word about the dementors attacking you," said Hermione. "Someone's told them to keep that quiet. That should've been a really bug story, out-of-control dementors. They haven't even reported that you broke the International Statute of Secrecy — we though they would, it would tie in so well with this image of you as some stupid show-off — we think they're biding their time until you're expelled, then they're really going to go to town — I mean, _if_ you're expelled, obviously," she went on hastily, "you really shouldn't be, not if they abide by their own laws, there's no case against you."

"Uh-oh"

Fred gave the Extendable Ear a hearty tug; there was another loud crack and he and George vanished. Seconds later, Mrs. Weasley appeared in the bedroom doorway.

"The meeting's over, you can come down and have dinner now, everyone's dying to see you, Harry," Iceland was out the door as soon as she had mentioned 'dinner'. He was starving, having paid more attention to his books and the Black Family Library in the previous days.

Iceland shoved his way through the crowd of Order members (who didn't even notice him [what was new there]), stopping just before the kitchen door as a glint he hadn't noticed before caught his eye. Stepping towards a thin table underneath a large old curtain, he tentatively wrapped his hand around a chain hanging out of an old silver goblet with the complex Black crest being the only thing that marred the gleam of the cup. Lifting the necklace from the silver, Iceland barely contained a gasp at the beautiful work that was before him.

Off of the chain hung three cylinders of Iceland Spar, of varying length. On the left one, copper vines wrapped around the crystal, the detail so fine Iceland could see the veins in the leaves. The vines spread into roots at the bottom, creating a cap at the bottom of the piece. When he checked, Iceland was shocked to see an old galdrastafir inscribed on the bottom (he could tell that it was one of the oldest, it was asymmetrical). _'Að fela eitthvað,'_ he thought.

The right one had a silver frost pattern, thin lines that ran along the crystal and condensed into snow at the base, having a similar effect as the vines. Having seen the galdrastafir on the previous one, he was sure there would be another Icelandic rune on this one. It was a symmetrical (it had some of the most Christian influence out of the staves) this time. _'(Á) Móti öllum galdri.'_

The center piece was the longest crystal, a thin golden dragon spiraling around it, minuscule soldiers around the base waved spears and axes at the majestic beast. On the base of the jewel, there was a pile of fallen vikings and one last stave upon the bodies of the dead. It was a lukkustafir, a good luck stave. _'Sá sem ber þessa stafi á sér mun ekki mæta óhappi hvorki á hafi né landi.'_

 _CRASH._

Iceland flinched, drawn from his stupor by the loud sound. " _Tonks!_ " cried Mrs. Weasly exasperatedly. Iceland ignored Tonks desperate apologies, noticing the Order members he had forced his way through earlier had all left. Any further thoughts on the situation Iceland had were cut off by a horrible, earsplitting, bloodcurdling screech.

The moth-eaten velvet curtains above the stand Iceland was standing at flew apart. For a split second, Iceland thought he was looking through a window, a window behind which an old woman in a black cap was screaming and screaming as though she was being tortured — then he realized it was simply a life-size portrait, but one of the most realistic, and the one of the most unpleasant, he had ever seen in his long life.

The old woman was drooling, her eyes were rolling, the yellowing skin of her face stretched taut as she screamed, and all along the hall behind him, the other portraits awoke and began to yell too.

Lupin and Iceland darted forward and tried to tug the curtains shut over the old woman, but they would not close (disadvantages to not having an army 501) and she screeched louder than ever, brandishing clawed hands as though trying to tear at their faces.

" _Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness!_ " Iceland for some reason decided it would be a good idea to try and yell back at her (in Icelandic, for some reason), abandoning his side of the curtain to face the portrait and yell.

" _HAFÐU HLJÓTT BRJÁLÆÐA KERLING!_ " The portrait glared at him and continued screeching (a screaming match with an old woman inside of a portrait. Not something Iceland thought he'd ever do). Iceland continued yelling in Icelandic, being much louder than the portrait (he was used to yelling over the other Nordics).

"GAMLA NORN, HVAÐA RÉTT HEFUR ÞÚ AÐ MÓÐGA ANNAÐ FÓLK, ANDLITSLJÓTA!" Iceland screeched back at the portrait, until he noticed a new voice had joined the real Screech-Fest 1995.

"I said — shut — UP!" Sirius roared, and with stupendous effort he and Lupin managed to force the curtains closed again.

The old woman's screeches dies and an echoing silence fell.

Panting slightly and sweeping his long dark hair out of his eyes, Sirius turned to face the kid who was no longer the champion of the Screech-Fest.

"Hello, Harry," he said grimly, "I see you've met my mother."

* * *

 **Author's Note**

 **I would like to thank everybody who has followed, reviewed and favorited this story. It truly means a lot to me, thank you :)**

 **Árans fáviti, vekjandi mig frá mínum verð = Fucking asshole, waking me up from my well... (deserved nap, but its a trail off so what ever)**

 **HAVÐ Í FJANDANUM = WHAT THE HELL**

 **HVAÐ Í ÓSKÖPUNUM ERUÐ ÞIÐ TVEIR AÐ GERA = WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TWO DOING**

 **Ú, grimmt = Oh, cruel**

 ** _Að fela eitthvað = To hide something_**

 ** _Á Móti öllum galdri **= A** gainst all magic_**

 ** _Sá sem ber þessa stafi á sér mun ekki mæta óhappi hvorki á hafi né landi= Whosoever bears these staves on him will not meet with mishaps on sea and land_**

 ** _HAFÐU HLJÓTT BRJÁLÆÐA KERLING! = BE QUIET CRAZY WOMAN_**

 **GAMLA NORN, HVAÐA RÉTT HEFUR ÞÚ AÐ MÓÐGA ANNAÐ FÓLK, ANDLITSLJÓTA! = YOU OLD WITCH, WHAT RIGHT DO YOU HAVE TO OFFEND OTHERS, UGLY FACE!**

 **I wrote this in, like, eight hours (half of which was spent staring blankly at the wall in front of me), so this was slightly rushed and probably has a lot of mistakes. I'll probably edit this more and fix some (a lot) things and add more Iceland in there soon.**

 **Side note: A galdrastafir (according to what I could find on the internet) is an Icelandic magical stave, apparently used in the time of the vikings even though they were recorded and written down after the viking age (therefore heavily influenced by Christianity). If you Google 'galdrastafir', the first thing that shows up is a research paper, where I got most of my information for the runes. If you would like to learn more on the Icelandic magical staves, please go there :)**

 **I'm going to be in Washington D.C. for a while, so I probably won't update this for like a week (my laptop is really old and heavy [plus the battery doesn't work, so if I can't use my charger I can't work], so it just isn't worth bringing).**


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning: Mild angst**

* * *

Iceland decided this would be a good time to leave, not wanting to intrude on Harry's reunion with his Godfather, plus FOOD! Forgetting about the necklace clutched in his hand, Iceland ran to kitchen, a cavernous room which was scarcely less gloomy than the hallway was. Most of the light was coming from a large fire at the far end of the room. A haze of pipe smoke hung in the air like volcanic ash, through which loomed the menacing shapes of heavy iron pots and pans hanging from the dark ceiling ( _'Hungary would probably like it here. Plenty of pots and pans to abuse Prussia with,'_ Iceland thought). Many chairs had been crammed into the room for the meeting and a long wooden table stood in the middle of the room, littered with rolls of parchment, goblets, empty wine bottles, and a heap of what appeared to be rags. Mr. Weasley and his eldest son, Bill, were talking quietly with their heads together at the end of the table. Iceland distinctly felt like he had just walked into the living room at his house after the rest of the Nordics had had a drunken brawl.

Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat. Her husband, a thin, balding, red-haired man, who wore horn-rimmed glasses, looked around and jumped to his feet.

"Harry!" Mr. Weasley said, hurrying forward to greet him and shaking his hand vigorously. Iceland just noticed the fact that Harry had just walked in with Sirius. "Good to see you!" as Harry talked with the Weasley's, Sirius looked over at Iceland.

"What's that, Emil?" Sirius asked, gesturing to the necklace in his hand.

"Hm?" Iceland said, looking down at his hand. "Ah!" he yelped, realizing he still held the jewelry he had picked up earlier. "Sorry, I meant to put it back!" Sirius threw his head back and laughed.

"No, no, it's fine. You can keep it," he said with a smile on his face. Iceland blanched.

"Do you realize how much this is worth?" he cried, holding out the pieces of Iceland spar to Sirius.

"Not really, but you do, so you can appreciate it more than I can," he said, patting Iceland's head, messing up his already unruly hair. Iceland's eyes widened, and the hand holding the necklace started shaking as he unconsciously pulled it to his chest protectively.

"Are you sure?"

"Yup. Keep it kid," Sirius said, turning back to talk to Harry. Iceland didn't even think of snapping back that he was _not_ a kid as he stood there in shock, eyes as large as serving platters. Snapping back into reality, Iceland looked over to Mundungus who had been saying something that didn't process in Iceland's head.

"Ah," said Mundungus. "Right. Sorry Molly."

A cloud of greenish smoke that had congregated around him vanished as Mundungus stowed his pipe back in his pocket, but an acrid smell of burning socks lingered. Iceland put the necklace over his head, the crystals starting to give off a subtle glow as soon as they laid upon his chest.

"And if you want dinner before midnight I'll need a hand," Mrs. Weasley said to the room at large. "No, you can stay where you are, Harry dear, you've had a long journey —

"What can I do Molly?" said Tonks enthusiastically, bounding forward.

Mrs. Weasley hesitated, looking apprehensive. Iceland snorted, it was exactly as if Denmark had offered to help Finland with Christmas dinner (not after what happened _last time_ ).

"Er — no, it's all right, Tonks, you have a rest too, you've done enough today —"

"No, no, I want to help!" said Tonks brightly, knocking over a chair as she hurried toward the dresser from which Ginny was collecting cutlery. _'Yeah,'_ Iceland thought, _'Exactly like Denmark.'_

Soon a series of heavy knives were chopping meat and vegetables of their own accord, supervised by Mr. Weasley, while Mrs. Weasley stirred a cauldron dangling over the fire and the others took out plates, more goblets, and food from the pantry. Iceland was left at the table ("No, sit down, deary, you haven't had enough sleep recently to be helping with the cooking, ou just sit and have some rest.") with Harry, Sirius and Mundungus, the latter of which was still blinking mournfully at Harry. Mundungus started a (somewhat) casual conversation, which Iceland ignored until he heard a loud screech from Mrs. Weasley (today was definitely Screech-Fest 1995, without a doubt).

"Fred — George — NO, JUST CARRY THEM!" Mrs. Weasley shrieked.

Iceland's snapped up so fast he was a step away from giving himself whiplash, and his eyes suddenly widened. Fred and George had bewitched a large cauldron of stew, an Iron flagon or butterbeer, and a heavy wooden breadboard, complete with knife, to hurtle through the air towards him. The stew skidded the length of the table and came to a halt just before the end (it was probably less than ten centimeters from Iceland's nose), leaving a long black burn on the wooden surface, the flagon of butterbeer fell with a crash, spilling its contents all over Iceland, turning his silvery hair a light brown, and the bread knife slipped off the board and landed, the point deep in the wood and quivering ominously, right between Iceland's arm and his rib cage, the blade maybe a quarter centimeter into his skin creating a short five centimeter horizontal cut between two of his ribs. Iceland was breathing heavily, not even having made a squeak at the piercing of his skin, stock still as his brain struggled to process what had just happened. The butterbeer in his clothes started to sink into the cut, making Iceland hiss.

"FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!" screamed Mrs. Weasley. "THERE WAS NO NEED — I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS — JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE ALLOWED TO USE MAGIC NOW YOU DON'T HAVE TO WHIP YOUR WANDS OUT FOR EVERY TINY THING!" (Screech-Fest 1995 trademark)

"We were just trying to save a bit of time!" said Fred, hurrying forward and wrenching the bread knife from Iceland's chair, the twisting aggrivating the cut, blood spilling onto the knife. Fred hadn't noticed yet. "Sorry Emil, mate — didn't mean to —" He stopped dead as he saw the crimson liquid on the knife. Fred looked at where he pulled the knife from the wood, seeing some of the blood that had spread onto the chair, eye widening as he traced it back to the cut on Iceland's side. Iceland grabbed the knife and a towel from the table and shakily cleaned the knife off (he was reasonably in shock at the sudden events), pressing the cloth to his side. He handed the knife back to Fred with a whisper.

"Be quiet, it was an accident and I don't want you in anymore trouble than you are now," he hissed at Fred, who nodded and, with a amazing display of acting skills, ran back to the kitchen to put the knife away as if nothing had happened. Harry and Sirius were both laughing, nobody besides Fred having noticed the cut, and Iceland sighed in relief. He hated being fussed over. Mundungus, who had toppled backward off his chair, was swearing as he got to his feet. Crookshanks (Hermione's cat, if Iceland remembered correctly) had given an angry hiss and shot off under the dresser, from whence his large yellow eyes glowed in the darkness. The craziness was step away from being 'Tuesday' at the Nordic household (minus the injury to Iceland, the other Nordics often saw him as the baby brother [Sealand spent a lot of his time at England's or Latvia's house], and avoided even breathing on him in their brawls. It annoyed Iceland to no end).

"Boys," Mr. Weasley said, lifting the stew back into the middle of the table (casting a quick cleaning spell on Iceland's clothes [which he was grateful for], not noticing the cut either), "your mother's right, you're supposed to show a sense of responsibility now you've come of age —"

"— none of your brothers caused this sort of trouble!" Mrs. Weasley raged at the twins, slamming a fresh flagon of butterbeer onto the table and spilling almost as much again. "Bill didn't feel the need to apparate every few feet! Charlie didn't Charm everything he met! Percy —"

She stopped dead, catching her breath with a frightened look at her husband, whose expression was suddenly wooden. Iceland tensed, not wanting another argument or anything to break out.

"Let's eat," said Bill quickly. _'Thank you, savior,'_ Iceland thought.

"It looks wonderful, Molly" said Lupin, ladling stew onto a plate for her and handing it across the table.

For a few minutes there was silence but for the chink of plates and cutlery and the scraping of chairs as everyone settled down to their food. Fred handed a bowl of stew and a plate with bread and vegetables to Iceland (getting a few weird looks in the process, but nobody said anything), who accepted it graciously. Then Mrs. Weasley turned to Sirius and said, "I've been meaning to tell you, there's something trapped in that writing desk in the drawing room, it keeps rattling and shaking. Of course, it could just be a boggart, but I thought we ought to ask Alastor to have a look at it before we let it out."

"Whatever you like," said Sirius indifferently. Iceland quietly ate his food, pushing around his vegetables with his fork.

"The curtains in there are full of doxies too," Mrs. Weasley went on. "I thought we might try and tackle them tomorrow."

"I look forward to it," said Sirius. Iceland quietly snorted, catching the blatant sarcasm.

Up a couple seats from Iceland, Tonks was entertaining Hermione and Ginny by transforming her nose between mouthfuls. Screwing up her eyes each time with the same pained expression she had worn when she shocked Iceland by making her hair a bright silver to match when he had first met a few days previously, her nose swelled to a beaklike protuberance like Russia's, shrank to something resembling a button mushroom, and then sprouted a great deal of hair from each nostril. Soon Hermione and Ginny started requesting their favorite noses.

"Do that one like a pig snout, Tonks..."

Tonks obliged, and Iceland had the fleeting impression that America's true form was grinning at Harry from across the table.

Mr. Weasley, Bill, and Lupin were having an intense discussion about goblins.

"They're not giving anything away yet," said Bill. "I still can't work out whether they believe he's back or not. 'Course, they might prefer not to take sides at all. Keep out of it."

"I'm sure they'd never go over to You-Know-Who," said Mr. Weasley, shaking his head. "They've suffered losses too. Remember that goblin family he murdered last time, somewhere near Nottingham?"

"I think it depends what they're offered," said Lupin. "And I'm not talking about gold; it they're offered freedoms we've been denying them for centuries they're going to be tempted. Have you still not had any luck with Ragnok, Bill?"

"He's feeling pretty anti-wizard at the moment," said Bill. "He hasn't stopped raging about the Bagman business, he reckons the Ministry did a cover-up, those goblins never got their gold from him, you know —"

A gale of laughter from the middle of the table drowned the rest of Bill's words. Fred, George, Ron, and Mundungus were rolling around in their seats.

"... and then," choked Mundungus, tears running down his face (Iceland was briefly worried about him, but then remembered he was a slimy bastard [to put it like Romano]), "and then, if you'll believe it," _'I probably won't_ ,' Iceland thought, "'e says to me, 'e says, ''ere, Dung, where didja get all them toads from? 'Cos some son of a Bludger's gone and nicked all mine!' And I says, 'Nicked all your toads, Will, what next? So you'll be wanting some more, then?' And if you'll believe me, lads, the gormless gargoyle buys all 'is own toads back orf me for twice what 'e paid in the first place —"

"I don't think we need to hear any more of your business dealings, thank you very much, Mundungus," said Mrs. Weasley sharply, as Ron slumped forward onto the table, howling with laughter. Iceland mentally thanked Mrs. Weasley, because, not to sound like England, he felt as if he listened to anymore of Mundungus' voice, his beautifully Icelandic accented English would start to sound like he was from the British underworld (which was going to raise some questions, not to mention make him look like a punk [which he was not {no matter what Mr. Puffin says}]).

"Beg pardon, Molly," said Mundungus at once ( _'Oh god, he's still talking,'_ Iceland thought), wiping his eyes and winking at Harry and Iceland (making the latter of which feel physically uncomfortable). " But, you know, Will nicked 'em orf Warty Harris in the first place so I wasn't really doing nothing wrong —"

"I don't know where you learnt about right and wrong, Mundungus, but you seem to have missed a few crucial lessons," said Mrs. Weasley coldly. _'Ooooh, burn,'_ Iceland thought on instinct, but refrained from saying it out loud (these wizard folk didn't even get his anime references, making him feel as if everybody around him was stupid [but then again, he always felt like that], which is how many of us feel in everyday life [if you deny it, you either have amazing friends or are lying to yourself]).

Fred and George buried their faces in their goblets of butterbeer; George was hiccuping. For some reason, Mrs. Weasley threw a very nasty look at Sirius before getting to her feet and going to fetch a large rhubarb crumble for desert. Iceland watched and listened as Harry looked round at his godfather.

"Molly doesn't approve of Mundungus," said Sirius in an undertone.

"How come he's in the order?" said Harry very quietly.

"He's useful," Sirius muttered. "Knows all the crooks — well, he would seeing as he's one himself. But he's also very loyal to Dumbledore, who helped him out of a tight spot once. It pays to have someone like Dung around, he hears things we don't. But Molly thinks inviting him to stay for dinner is going too far." _'It is,'_ Iceland thought, crinkling his nose as he glanced at the person in question. "She hasn't forgiven him for slipping off duty when he was supposed to be tailing you."

Two helpings of rhubarb crumble and custard later, Iceland's eyes had started to creep closed, laying down his spoon at a lull in the general conversation (the cut had stopped bleeding a while back, and the red-stained towel was now tucked into his pocket). Mr. Weasley was leaning back in his chair, looking replete and relaxed, Tonks was yawning widely, her nose now back to normal, and Ginny, who had lured Crookshanks (who, now that Iceland thought about it, Greece would love) out from under the dresser, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling butterbeer corks for him to chase.

"Nearly time for bed I think," said Mrs. Weasley on a yawn.

"Not just yet, Molly," said Sirius, pushing away his empty plate and turning to look at Harry. Iceland kind of felt like Canada in this household (okay, that was little bit of an exaggeration, but the point stands). "You know, I'm surprised at you. I thought the first thing you'd do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort."

The atmosphere in the room changed with the rapidity Iceland associated with Russia entering a room (or Belarus entering a room when Russia was there) or maybe America opening his mouth at the World Meetings. Where seconds before it had been sleepily relaxed, it was now alert, even tense. A frisson had gone around the table at the mention of Voldemort's name. Iceland really didn't get the big deal about Voldemort. Take away his wand, voilá. No more problem. Or you could, like, shoot him. Whichever one works better. Lupin, who had been about to take a sip of wine, lowered his goblet slowly, looking wary.

"I did!" said Harry indignantly ( _'And I heard it,'_ Iceland thought irritably). "I asked Ron and Hermione but they said we're not allowed in the Order, so —" _'You started screaming? As if it would make them suddenly eligible for the Order of the French?'_ Iceland thought, thinking back to when he walked into the kitchen to see dozens of empty wine bottle scattered across the floor and the tables. _'What is this, France?'_

"And they're quite right," said Mrs. Weasley, snapping Iceland out of his musings. "You're too young."

She was sitting bolt upright in her chair (reminding Iceland of Germany), her fists clenched upon its arms (reminding Iceland of Germany at the World Conferences [or whenever Prussia entered a room]), every trace of drowsiness gone.

"Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions?" asked Sirius. "Harry's been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He's got the right to know what's been happen —" _'Has nobody noticed that even the house elf here knows more about this situation than I do?'_ Iceland thought bitterly.

"Hang on!" interrupted George loudly.

"How come Harry gets his questions answered?" said Fred angrily.

" _We've_ been trying to get stuff out of you for a month and you haven't told us a single stinking thing!" said George. _'Took the words right out of my mind,'_ thought Iceland who was too 'polite' (he actually just didn't want to draw attention to himself) to interrupt.

" _'_ _You're too young, you're not in the Order,'_ " said Fred, in a high-pitched voice that sounded uncannily like his mother's. "Harry's not even of age!"

"It's not my fault you haven't been told what the Order's doing," said Sirius calmly. "That's your parents' decision. Harry, on the other hand —"

"It's not down to you to decide what's good for Harry!" said Mrs. Weasley sharply. Her normally kind face looked dangerous. Kind of like Finland whenever Russia entered the room. "You haven't forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?"

"Which bit?" Sirius asked politely, but with an air as though readying himself for a fight. Now that Iceland thought about it, that was also kind of like the Finn when Russia was too close to one of his fellow Nordics.

"The bit about not telling Harry more than he _needs to know_ ," said Mrs. Weasley, placing a heavy emphasis on the last three words.

Iceland, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George's heads turned from Sirius to Mrs. Weasley as though following a tennis rally, or watching Greece and Turkey fight about whatever the hell they were fighting about (nobody really knew why they fought anymore) again. Ginny was kneeling amid a pile of abandoned butterbeer corks, watching the conversation with her mouth slightly open. Lupin's eyes were fixed on Sirius.

"I don't intend to tell him more than he _needs to know_ , Molly," said Sirius. "But he was the one who saw Voldemort come back" (again, there was a collective shudder around the table at the name. Iceland rolled his eyes), "he has more right than most to —"

"He's not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!" said Mrs. Weasley. "He's only fifteen and —"

"— and he's dealt with as much as most in the Order," said Sirius. "and more than some —"

"No one's denying what he's done!" said Mrs. Weasley, her voice rising, her fists trembling on the arms of her chair. Iceland started to shake nervously, the argument bringing him back to when the Kalmar Union had started to dissolve. This is what the Nordic dinner had started to look like before he would be watching from the corner as everybody fought in bloody brawls. He never cried, there was no use (why cry when nobody answers, why frown when nobody cares?). To Iceland, this is what a family falling apart looked like. "But he's still —"

"He's not a child!" said Sirius impatiently.

"He's not an adult either!" said Mrs. Weasley, the color rising in her cheeks like Romano when Spain hugs him. Though not quite with the same affection behind it. "He's not _James,_ Sirius!"

"I'm perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly," said Sirius coldly.

"I'm not sure you are!" said Mrs. Weasley. "Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it's as though you think you've got your best friend back!" Iceland was trembling violently at this point, as if he was in one of Finland's, or maybe one of Russia's mid winter blizzards without a jacket.

"What's wrong with that?" said Harry.

"What's wrong, Harry, is that you are _not_ your father, however much you might look like him!" said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes still boring into Sirius. "You are still at school and adults responsible for you should not forget it!" Iceland squeezed his eyes shut as memories came flooding back, three select ones standing out above the rest.

* * *

 _Sweden had thrown open the front door and raced out, a small five year old-looking Iceland watching from around the corner, not understanding why Papa Sve was leaving. After a brief hesitation, Mama Finn picked up his bag and followed Papa Sve out the door. Big Brother Norge was traveling back and forth between Norway and Denmark handling both his and Big Brother Den's work. Big Brother Den was in his room, still recovering from his wounds he had gained fighting Papa Sve during the Engelbrekt rebellion._

 _Nobody had explained what a rebellion was or what had happened between Big Brother Den and Papa Sve to the young Iceland. All he remembered was watching the bloody fight between Papa and Big Brother Den unfold as Mama and Big Brother Norge tried to pull the two apart, to no avail. That was the third to last time Iceland would cry, who had, over the years, noticed that his family was quarreling more and more, and nobody would comfort him when he cried him anymore, so he started to cry less and less. Papa Sve had left several times in anger after an argument, but had always come back. This time he had said he was leaving for good, and Mama followed Papa whenever he left. Not knowing what to without Mama and Papa at home, Iceland waddled back to Big Brother Den's room, crawling into the bed with his big brother, who put his arm around his little brother unconsciously, pulling the young colony close to his body, where Iceland curled up close to the warmth._

 _Iceland fell asleep not knowing what was going to happen, but knew what had happened. His family had started to fall apart._

* * *

 _Iceland was starting to look around seven years old at this point, when Sweden had taken Norway kicking and screaming from Denmark's house. It had all started when England had barged into Denmark's house. Norway, having seen the temperamental nation coming over from his bedroom window, had told Iceland to go to his room and not come out until Norway called for him, his stoicism not telling Iceland anything was wrong. Iceland wasn't quite sure what happened, hearing yelling from the living room but not being able to make out what was being said by the raised voices, but the next thing he knew Norway and Denmark had been forced to ally with France._

 _France and his allies lost the war, leading to Denmark being forced to sign the Treaty of Kiel. Denmark had come back home in tears, blubbering to Norway how he had been forced to give him up to Sweden and how he was going to have leave and how he didn't wan to sign it but he was forced to and how he_ didn't want Norway to leave _._

 _Norway still looked physically twelve at that point in time, and his eyes were wide open in shock, the expression looking almost ridiculous on his normally bored and indifferent looking features. After he had recovered from the shock, he had grabbed Denmark in a hug, who was shocked into silence, the flow of tears coming to a halt, whispering how it wasn't his fault. They stayed like that, leaning against the wall, Norway holding Denmark to his chest comfortingly, the rest of the night. Iceland had been watching from the top of the stairs, which was why he knew what had happened, Denmark refusing to even mention the matter of Norway having left after the fact and both of them never giving him a chance to ask in present day. Iceland had laid one of his wool blankets across his brothers after they fell asleep (Icelandic wool, of course. It got cold at night)._

 _When the day came for Sweden to collect Norway, Iceland was crying. Iceland had given Norway a lopapeysa he had made himself, working on it after his older brothers thought he was asleep. It was one of the best he had ever made, and as Iceland gave it to Norway, the said nation had broken out in tears, and hugged Iceland close before handing the small boy to Denmark, tears still streaming down his face. When Sweden came to take Norway to his house, Norway had screamed himself hoarse at the tall kingdom, refusing to go with him. When Sweden grabbed Norway to drag the boy away, Norway clawed at the wall, leaving long scratch marks along the old wooden walls, somehow managing to scream even more after his voice was gone, shredding his vocal chords (this was the reason why Norway was always so monotone, his voice having been so damaged by the screaming and crying and wailing he had done that day, he didn't have the vocal flexibility he did in the past)._

 _Denmark had kneeled down onto the floor, hunched over as he broke down into sobs, holding Iceland close to his body. The young colony was in shock. He knew this was coming, but now the true reality had dawned on him. Norway had left and he wasn't coming back. Iceland started crying as well as Norway's cries slowly started to fade out into the distance, finally dissipating into the sound of the two brothers crying and whimpering as they held each other close, the only family either had left._

 _Iceland slept in Denmark's bed for almost a year afterwards._

* * *

 _World War II was almost certainly going to end in Germany's defeat._

 _At the start of the war, Iceland was looking fourteen as Germany rampaged across Europe. Around the middle of WWII, Denmark had been gazing out the window with a frown on his face, like he always did since the war had started, and Iceland was sitting against the wall a couple feet away, feeding Mr. Puffin. When Denmark suddenly tensed and stood up, knocking the chair over, the bang of the chair clattering to the floor caused Iceland to look up at his older brother, who had a look of genuine fear on his face. When Denmark told him to go hide behind the false wall in the attic (Denmark had it built long before the start of the war for instances like these) with a tremble in his voice, Iceland was confused but listened to his brother and ran up the stairs._

 _Iceland could only hear crashes and war cries as Denmark fought somebody who had kicked in the front door. Knowing what was currently happening across half the ocean in mainland Europe, Iceland knew it was Germany. He wanted to help, but Germany was strong and Iceland only had a coast guard. He decided to stay hidden so that Germany wouldn't be able to get get his hands on Icelandic wool if he ever wanted to go fight in Russia, or if he wanted Iceland's fish as a source of food. Plus if stayed away, he could rally help to aid not only Denmark, but Norway and the rest of the Nordics as well._

 _Not too long after, Iceland was forced to declare his independence from Denmark. It hurt to leave the Dane like everybody else had, and knew his older brother would be offended that Iceland would choose to leave at a time like this. But hopefully Denmark would understand Iceland's situation and be supportive of his decision. Not long after declaring his independence, a note from the King of Denmark arrived, congratulating the new country, along with a separate note addressed to Iceland._

Dear Emil,

I'm glad to hear you're okay, Germany (even though he's kind of a dick [the worst], he used to be so sensible and reasonable. I think it's this new leader of his, he's not really thinking clearly) was 'kind' enough to let me send you a congratulatory note. I only have a few lines to get my point across, but you made the right decision. We are in the middle of a war, and staying in my house would have only led to your capture by Germany. I heard England is currently keeping troops on your island. If he ever visits, kick him in the nuts for pulling us into the Napoleonic Wars, will you?

Stay safe,  
Matthias

 _Iceland was relieved to hear from Denmark, his brother and best friend. He broke down crying, holding the note close to his heart. He swore that day to stay as far away from international conflict as he could (and give England that kick in the nuts [What? He had always wanted to do it and now he had an excuse]), and if pulled into it, be the peacemaker, because as far as Iceland knew, fighting could only destroy. It had torn apart Europe before, and it is doing so again. It had almost torn America in two. It had cause Papa Sve and Mama Finn to run away. It had caused Sweden to take away Norway, who was kicking and screaming the bloody murder that haunted Iceland at night when he tried to sleep. It had taken Denmark, the only family he had left._

 _Fighting had torn his family and others apart, and one day it will tear apart the world._

* * *

"Meaning I'm an irresponsible godfather?" demanded Sirius, his voice rising. Iceland's eyes snapped open as he came back into reality, the influence of his memories evident as his mind started to formulate a plan of action.

"Meaning you've been known to act rashly, Sirius, which is why Dumbledore keeps reminding you to stay at home and —"

"We'll leave my instructions from Dumbledore out of this, if you please!" said Sirius loudly. As Mrs. Weasley opened her mouth to shout back, Iceland slammed his hands on the table and stood up, a dangerous look on his face, not unlike Germany breaking up a brawl at a world meeting.

" ** _EVERYBODY SHUT UP_** ** _!_** " Iceland roared, everybody's heads whipping around to face him. There was dead quiet, having shocked every person there into silence, not expecting such a booming sound to come from a well-mannered Icelandic boy who was a mere 159 centimeters tall. If you dropped a pin, you would probably be able to hear it cutting through the air as it fell. " ** _ALL YOU'RE DOING IS FIGHTING! THAT IS NOT GOING TO GET ANYTHING DONE!_** " several people, including Sirius and Mrs. Weasley, opened their mouths to talk before Iceland cut them off. " ** _YOU TALK ABOUT HAVING TO BE AN ADULT TO JOIN THE ORDER BUT YOU'RE ALL SITTING HERE SQUABBLING AND GETTING NOTHING DONE, LIKE AMERICAN POLITICIANS, WHO ARE BASICALLY OVERGROWN TODDLERS! NOW SIT DOWN AND HAVE AN ADULT CONVERSATION WITHOUT RAISING YOUR VOICES OR I SWEAR TO GOD EVERYBODY IN THIS ROOM IS SLEEPING OUTSIDE TONIGHT! HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR?_** " everybody in the room nodded frantically, suddenly afraid of the small Nordic. As Iceland deflated, his anger suddenly leaving him as silenced reigned over the room, his eyes widening as it ruled over the people in the room. Iceland could not believe how rude he had just been to his hosts, people who were kind enough to let him stay until the school year started. He stumbled and blubbered out an apology before sitting down and hugging his knees to is chest, only his eyes visible of his face, having hidden the rest in shame. Iceland watched the discussion continue, taking a minute to tune back into the conversation after a moment of wallowing in his embarrassment.

Mr. Weasley had taken off his glasses and cleaned them on his robes, speaking when he had replaced them on his nose, "Dumbledore knows the position has changed, Molly. He accepts that Harry will have to be filled in to a certain extent now that he is staying at head-quarters."

"Yes, but there's a difference between that and inviting him to whatever he likes."

"Personally," said Lupin quietly, those in the discussion turning to him, "I think it better that Harry gets the facts — not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture — from us, rather than a garbled version from... others."

His expression was mild, but Iceland felt sure that Lupin, at least, knew that some Extendable Ears had survived Mrs. Weasley's purge.

"Well," said Mrs. Weasley, breathing deeply and look around the table for support that did not come, "well... I can see I'm going to be overruled. I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who had got Harry's best interests at heart —"

"He's not your sone," said Sirius quietly. Iceland internally sighed. _'Oh god, don't start another fight, please.'_

"He's as good as," said Mrs. Weasley fiercely. "Who has he got?"

"He's got me!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Weasley, her lip curling. "The thing is, it's been rather difficult for you to look after him while you've been locked up in Azkaban, hasn't it?"

Sirius started to rise from his chair.

"Molly, you're not the only person at this table who cares about Harry," said Lupin sharply. Iceland mentally thanked the man for cutting in, bashing somebody for being framed and put in prison is a really low thing to do. "Sirius, sit _down._ "

Mrs. Weasley's lower lip was trembling. Sirius sank slowly back into his chair, his face white.

"I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this," Lupin continued. "He's old enough to decide for himself."

"I want to know what's been going on," said Harry at once. _'It's not about what's going on, it's what's most likely to happen in the future you want to know,'_ Iceland thought irritably.

"Very well," said Mrs. Weasley, her voice cracking. "Ginny — Ron — Hermione — Fred — George — Emil — I want you out of this kitchen, now."

There was an instant uproar from the Weasley siblings.

"We're of age!" Fred and George bellowed together.

"If Harry's allowed, why can't I?" shouted Ron.

"Mum, I _want_ to!" wailed Ginny.

"NO!" shouted Mrs. Weasley, standing up, her eyes overbright. "I absolutely forbid —"

"Molly, you can't stop Fred and George," said Mr. Weasley wearily. "They _are_ of age —"

"They're still at school —"

"But they're legally adults now," said Mr. Weasley in the same tired voice that reminded Iceland of Denmark after he had a bad dream, often in the year following Norway's departure.

Mrs. Weasley was now scarlet in the face.

"I — oh, all right then, Fred and George can stay, but Ron —"

"Harry'll tell me and Hermione everything you say anyway!" said Ron hotly. "Won't — won't you?" he added uncertainly, meeting Harry's eyes.

"'Course I will," Harry said. Rona and Hermione beamed like Veneziano whenever he saw pasta, or Spain when he saw Romano, or Russia whenever he saw... well, he always grinned liked that.

"Fine!" shouted Mrs. Weasley. "Fine! Emil and Ginny — BED!"

Iceland went without a word, but Ginny did not go quietly. As Iceland followed Ginny up the stairs, he got a front row seat of her raging and dtorming at her mother, and when she reached the hall Mrs. Black's earsplitting shrieks were added to the din. Behind he Iceland could hear Lupin running up the stairs to the portrait to restore calm, and then returning to the kitchen. As Iceland stood awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, he could see Ginny slam her door shut with a violent _BANG!_ and, not knowing what to do with himself, he had a sudden realization. He waited a few minutes for Ginny to calm down before knocking on her door, which she opened with a pissed expression on her face, kind of like Finland if anyone other than Sweden woke him up, but less extreme.

"What?" she asked him moodily.

"Do you know where Fred and George keep their Extendable Ears?" Iceland asked, smiling as he saw the realization dawn on Ginny's face. They hadn't put the Imperturbable Charm back on the door when they had left. Ginny rushed up the stairs to Fred and George's room, leaving Iceland waiting two landings above the kitchen door for a minute or two. As she came running back with the gadget, he held his fingers to his lips, and they listened. Iceland didn't remember all of what they said, but what was implied (that he picked up) was:

The weapon is probably something that will gain him a lot of followers or a tool that will kill Dumbledore. If it's suddenly found out that Voldemort is still alive, there will be three major sides to the war: Voldemort's, Dumbledore's, and the Ministry's. People would think the ministry lied to them , considering the daily prophet, and that would knock their choices down to two. Those on Dumbledore's side would construct another group or army, assuming the Order of the Phoenix stays secret. And if Voldemort kills Dumbledore after the new group is created lots of people would join both sides, with very few feeling safe to stay on the sidelines. But if Voldemort kills Dumbledore at the same time he reveals himself to the world and not anytime before, there would be a panic, and most would assume Dumbledore's army had been destroyed or disbanded, and so you have the Ministry and Voldemort left to side with. However, everyone owuld, again, belive the Ministry lied to them, and so nearly everyone would join Voldemort's side with the rest hiding away soemplace they couldn't be detected. That was probably why he was laying low and searching for the weapon.

Iceland's head had started to hurt from the analysis, plus he hadn't slept in three days, so he bid goodnight to Ginny, who was in a much better mood than she was before (thank god, the girl was a nightmare if angry) and headed to his room. Iceland started to wonder as he pulled off his white gloves and pulled the end of his colonel tie, the ribbon sliding around and off his neck easily, thanks to the silk material. How would this war start to affect the Nordic states? Voldemort probably wouldn't want to stop with the United Kingdom, se he would probably move off towards the rest of mainland Europe, meaning that his country was safe, but was his family? Iceland peeled off his brown military jacket and white shirt, which were stained an ugly dark brown color and rouge respectively, the dried blood having glued the material to his sickly pale skin (it was naturally like that, even though most of the other nations who didn't live as far north as he did didn't believe him). He would probably go Norway first, it had the largest magical community and it regulated the magical communities of Sweden and Finland, who had smaller ones, not enough to need their own ministry (but they each had one school).

Iceland unlaced his tall white boots (this process took two or three minutes either way), toeing them off and throwing his socks into the pile of discarded clothes. Voldemort would then go to Denmark most probably, as conquering Norway meant you had Sweden and Finland (well, he'd have to try harder for the Finnish; the Finns he knew tended to be very independent and probably only used the Norwegian Ministry for convenience). Denmark didn't do anything remarkable in the magical community in Europe, but taking Denmark would take Greenland (a good chunk of North America) and the Faroe Islands, which would give him reason to start taking over North America (probably wouldn't have much luck with the United States of America; they whoop your ass, and they're damn good at it too). Iceland was right in between those two territories, which would draw Voldemort's attention to his country. He wasn't sure what his country could offer, as his magical community was minuscule and there was no resources there he could see as appealing to Voldemort. By this point Iceland had changed into his pajamas, and crawled into bed, curling himself into a ball even smaller than his pillow, and fell asleep, worries about evil British overlords soon wiped from his thoughts as he drifted away to the mansions of rest.

* * *

 **And there is chapter three! I've published this earlier than I said I would, but my aunt and uncle (whom I stayed with during my trip to D.C.) let me use their computer so I could write this in some of my free time (most was spent going to the new museums that had opened in D.C., and going to see movies that had come out recently). Did I ever mention ym aunt and uncle are the best? They both like J-Pop (which my parents hate), they both have started to like Hetalia after I showed it to them (which my parents hate), my aunt doesn't instantly look at me like I'm psycho when I mention I like Finnish death metal (which my parents hate) (don't question my life choices), and my uncle reads fanfiction (which my parents also hate). Basically my parents hate everything I like (they always look at me like 'where did I go wrong').**

 **Anyways, I got the chance to watch Hetalia: World Twinkle (english dub) while I was in D.C. AND OH MY GOD DENMARK'S VOICE. WHAT THE HELL. IT'S REALLY WEIRD YET IT JUST WORKS AT THE SAME TIME. I LOVE IT. Also, I got to see 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' and OH MY GOD IT WAS BEAUTIFUL. If I don't find a way to incorporate some element of that movie (or the book, which I already owned and liked, but this movie took it to a whole new level) in this fanfiction, my life is over and I am just done.**

 **Anyways, until next chapter, Bye!**


	4. Chapter 4

**WARNING: FILLER CHAPTER, BAD CHAPTER, VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.**

* * *

Iceland woke up at the crack of dawn, like always, and attempted to drag himself out of bed, drowsiness still reigning over his mind and body. He eventually just gave up and continued to lie in bed, his blanket drawn up to his chin. He rolled over in the bed to be able to look out the window, watching the sun peek it's head over the horizon. He knew there was no excuse to go back to sleep now, and knowing the twins, the would probably wake him up with ice water or something unless he got up himself. Tossing back the comforter, Iceland swung his legs off the side of the bed, yelping slightly when his feet hit the freezing cold floor. He stood up and groaned as he stretched, able to hear multiple things cracking in his back and shoulders. As Iceland dressed himself, he growled under his breath to himself.

 _'I'll be a morning person when it's socially acceptable to wake up at noon.'_

* * *

Within half an hour, having dressed and eaten quickly, Iceland entered the drawing room a long, high-ceilinged room on the first floor with olive-green walls covered in tapestries with a shaking cabinet in the corner to the left of the door. The carpet exhaled little clouds of dust every time someone put their foot on it and the long, moss-green velvet curtains were buzzing as though swarming with bees. It was around these that Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, Ginny, Fred, George, Ron, and Harry were grouped, all looking rather peculiar, as they had tied cloths over their noses and mouths. Each of them was also holding a large bottle of black liquid with a nozzle at the end.

"Cover your face and take a spray," Mrs. Weasley said to Iceland the moment she saw she saw him, pointing to the lone bottle of putrid black liquid (Iceland thought it looked like that's what Russia's blood would be made out of) standing on a spindle-legged table. "It's Doxycide, I've never seen an infestation this bad — _what_ that house-elf's been doing for the last ten years —"

Hermione's face was half concealed by a tea towel but Iceland distinctly saw her throw a reproachful look at Mrs. Weasley at these words.

"Kreacher's really old, he probably couldn't manage —"

"You'd be surprised what Kreacher can manage when he wants to, Hermione," said Sirius, who had just entered the room carrying a bloodstained bag of what appeared to be dead rats. Iceland shuddered. "I've just been feeding Buckbeak," he added, in reply to Harry's inquiring look. "I keep him upstairs in my mother's bedroom. Anyway... this writing desk..."

He dropped the bag of rats onto an armchair, then bent over to examine the locked cabinet which was still shaking slightly.

"Well, Molly, I'm pretty sure this is a boggart," said Sirius, peering through the keyhole, "but perhaps we ought to let Mad-Eye have a shifty at it before we let it out — knowing my mother it could be something much worse."

"Right you are, Sirius," said Mrs. Weasley.

They were both speaking in carefully light, polite that told Iceland quite plainly that neither had forgotten their disagreement of the night before. Iceland 'tch'ed, thinking it was rather petty to hold grudges over something so stupid. Even America had forgiven Russia after the Cold War (because, despite the nation's happy-go-lucky personality, he could definitely hold a grudge), and that had only ended four years ago!

A loud clanging bell sounded from downstairs, followed at once by the cacophony of screams and wails that had been triggered by Tonks knocking over the umbrella stand.

"I keep telling them not to ring the doorbell!" said Sirius exasperatedly, hurrying back out of the room. They heard him thundering down the stairs as Mrs. Black's screeches echoed up through the house once more, " _Stains of dishonor, filthy half-breeds, blood traitors, children of filth..._ "

"Close the door, please, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley.

Iceland rolled his eyes as Harry took as much time as was socially acceptable, obviously trying to get as much information as possible. The least he could do was _try_ to be subtle. Maybe he should get the raven haired teen to take lessons from England (he may not be the best anymore, but he has the MI6) or maybe America (CIA). Actually, he takes that back. America was very touchy about his government agencies (because of the wildly varying opinions of his people, you never know how he will react whenever one of his agencies is brought up).

Iceland was brought out of his musings when he heard Sirius' voice calling for him through the now closed door.

"Emil! Mathias is here!" Iceland felt his face break out in a smile (ignoring the strange looks he got from the others) as he ripped open the door that Harry had had just closed (luckily not tearing another door off of it's hinges once more) and raced down the stairs, leaping towards Denmark to catch him in a hug. Denmark stumbled back a bit at the sudden attack, but quickly regained his footing as he wrapped his arms around his little brother with his face almost splitting in half with a wide grin.

"How ya been, Emmy?" Denmark asked, lowering Iceland to the ground. Iceland laughed.

"My name's still not Emmy. And I've been good, you?"

"I've been great!" Denmark said enthusiastically, before there was suddenly a ruffle of feathers and a sudden attack of pecks on Iceland's face.

"Hey, kid! Where ya been?" Mr. Puffin screeched at him in his mafioso way, "I've been forced to stay with cactus-head for the past four days!"

"I forgot," Iceland said lamely, swatting the Puffin away. The bird screech and fluttered before settling on the Icelandic boy's shoulder, hissing (Iceland still does not know how a bird can hiss, but whatever).

Denmark started laughing, before his face lit up with a question, "By the way, what on Earth was that screaming I heard? It sounded like Lukas whenever he sees our houses after a prank war." Iceland snorted, letting Sirius answer.

"It's an old portrait of my mother. We've tried getting it down, but she seems to have used a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back," at these words, Denmark frowned.

"Permanent Sticking Charms only wards off magical attempts of removing something. Why haven't you tried cutting it off? You don't have to do everything magically," not waiting for an answer, his face lit up and he thumped Iceland on the back, causing the frail nation to stumble (disadvantages of not having an army 601). "C'mon Em! I can fix this! Show me where this painting is!" without waiting for Iceland to lead the way, Denmark bounded up the stairs with the younger nation scrambling up behind him, with Sirius following with a chuckle.

When they were finally standing in front of the portrait, Denmark had a distinct look of being unimpressed, raising an eyebrow before yanking open the curtains, unleashing Mrs. Black's screams once more. Mr. Puffin started yelling back at the portrait. Sirius suddenly got why the Puffin and the boy seemed to get along. Kind of. Denmark sighed. "Rather weak screaming, don't'cha think?" Denmark asked, underwhelmed with the level of volume coming from the portrait. Iceland nodded, having sometimes worked as a healer during Denmark's viking times (and _boy_ , could they shout). Denmark quickly turned to Sirius. "You don't like her do you?" he asked, easily raising his voice over the screeching woman's horrid vocals. Sirius gave a dry laugh.

"No," he said simply, shaking his head. Denmark's face lit up like Christmas had come early (he may look twenty three, but he was still a child inside [ _Legos people. Legos._ ]), and turned back to the screaming lady, Iceland standing back, making a guess on what Denmark was about to do.

Pulling his large viking battle axe out of nowhere (Iceland never understood how Denmark did it. It definitely wasn't magic, Denmark had been doing it long before he even knew what magic was), Denmark thrust his arms back to wind up, narrowly missing a large antique vase, and swung the steel weapon forward, landing it solidly imbedded in the wall, the width of the axe almost cutting the portrait in half. Too lazy to pull it out, and ignoring Mrs. Black's shocked looks and gaping, almost fish like mouth, he planted his foot onto the end table and jumped up onto his axe and sat on it, being deep enough in he wall to support his weight. Whistling casually as he worked, Denmark flipped out a pocket knife and started sawing away the wall that the frame was attached too. This process took a while, so Iceland took this chance to talk to Sirius.

"You don't mind about the wall do you?" Iceland asked calmly. Sirius started to sport a wide grin and shook his head.

"Not at all. Why haven't I thought of doing that?" Sirius said.

"Do you own a large viking style battle axe?" Iceland commented dryly, watching as Denmark cut away at the last side of the frame, catching it as it fell away from the wall. Denmark jumped off of his axe, still holding the frame, and walked past Iceland with a large smile on his face.

"C'mon, Ice! Come outside, we need to burn this!" Iceland sighed, but had a small grin on his face as he rushed outside after his brother, Sirius following with a smile on his face.

* * *

After burning the remains of the portrait and Denmark freaking over the fact that he had left 'his precious baby (*cough* battle axe *cough*)' inside by itself, Iceland, Denmark, and Sirius had settled at the dinning room table, conversing over mindless topics, bouncing around subjects as if playing hot potato. And by mindless topics, Iceland meant a weird-ass conversation that made them sound as if they were drunk. Some of his favorite quotes from the talk were:

On the subject of Denmark's eccentric personality: _"I was born to be a sparkly Dane."_ (Denmark)

On the subject of vegetarians and the ethics of eating plants: _"Potatoes are people too."_ (Sirius)

On the subject of the latest sex scandal in Europe: _"You know, one of the reasons I live nine hundred and fourteen away from civilization is because I'm kind of allergic to other people's drama."_ (Iceland)

Those were just some of the many beautifully high-on-drugs sounding the sentences spoken. Sadly, when their conversation was reaching the five hour mark, the 'sparkly Dane' was cut off in the middle of a sentence ( _"I'm like a salmon, defying gravity!"_ ) when the doorbell rang, the loud instrument's clanging reverberating throughout the house. Sirius tensed up, expecting is mother to start screeching, before remembering the piece of artwork had been destroyed. He started cackling like a hyena as the realization finally settles in that the last traces of his mothers face in the mouse had finally been erased. He continued to laugh as Mrs. Weasley thundered down the stairs to answer the door, and the trio eventually returned to their conversation about why Denmark felt like a salmon, cut off once more the red-haired woman's screaming.

"WE ARE NOT RUNNING A HIDEOUT FOR STOLEN GOODS!" Denmark and Iceland scrambled to the front hallway to watch the spectacle of Mrs. Weasley having a good go at Mundungus, who was holding a tall stack of precariously stacked cauldrons, the top one wobbling worryingly. The two brothers heads poked out around the corner leading from the hallway to the front room, looking vaguely amused.

"I mean, technically Sirius could be counted as a stolen good, but whatever," remarked Iceland dully, causing Denmark to snort. "Didn't you steal your axe from some blacksmith in England a millennia ago? Or was that your dagger? It might have been back sometime in 3000 BC, I don't remember."

Denmark suddenly looked flustered and embarrassed that somebody remembered that his axe wasn't Danish. "What? No, no, of course not," the Dane said, scrambling to recover from his stumble, the defensiveness of the phrase telling Iceland everything he wanted to know. The two nations tuned back to Mrs. Weasley going off at Mundungus.

"— COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE, AS IF WE HAVEN'T FOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT WITHOUT YOU DRAGGING STOLEN CAULDRONS INTO THE HOUSE —" Iceland tapped Denmark's chest to get his attention.

"Let's go get your axe," the lithe country whispered, the two heading to the stairs back to the second level to where Denmark had let his large battle axe embedded in the structure if the house. Denmark raised an eyebrow when he saw fingerprints on the axe, as if someone had tried pulling it out, but shrugged and tugged on the axe with one hand, pulling out a couple chunks of drywall along with the steel weapon and braced it over his shoulder. The two then decided to go see what the others in the drawing room where doing, Denmark missed cleaning (his house was freakishly spotless, contrary to many other nations perception of the former viking) and Iceland felt guilty about not doing his share of work for Sirius being generous enough to let him stay there. When they reached the drawing room, They caught a glimpse of Sirius entering the area, and heard the mans voice ring out as they entered just seconds after him to see Kreacher (whom Denmark was shocked to see in a such a state, as house-elves in the Danish [and pretty much all of the Nordics'] wizard community were required to be paid and treated well, which this house-elf obviously wasn't) flinging himself into a ridiculously low bow that flattened his snout-like nose on the floor as he saw Sirius.

"Stand up straight," said Sirius impatiently. "Now, what are you up to?"

"Kreacher is cleaning," the elf said. "Kreacher lives to serve the noble house of Black —"

"— and it's getting black every day, it's filthy," said Sirius. Denmark snorted and Iceland his a smirk, not that anybody in the room noticed.

"Master always liked his little joke," said Kreacher, bowing again, and continuing in an undertone that most everybody in the room could hear, despite what the elf thought, "Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his mother's heart —"

"My mother didn't have a heart, Kreacher," Sirius snapped. "She kept herself alive out of pure spite." At this, neither of the two nations could resist anymore and burst out laughing, getting weird looks from the current residents of the room and a small smile from Sirius. Kreacher paid them no mind.

Kreacher bowed again and said, "Whatever Master says," then muttered furiously, "Master is not fit to wipe slime from his mother's boots, oh my poor Mistress, what a disappointment he was —"

"I asked you what you were up to," said Sirius coldly, "Every time you show up pretending to be cleaning you sneak something off to your room so we can't throw it out."

"Kreacher would never move anything from its proper place in the Master's house," said the elf, then muttered very fast, "Mistress would never forgive Kreacher if the tapestry was thrown out, seven centuries it's been in the family, Kreacher will not let Master and the blood traitors and the brats destroy it —"

"I thought it might be that," said Sirius, casting a disdainful look at the opposite wall. "She'll have put another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it, I don't doubt." Sirius cast a look over his shoulder at Denmark, looking amused as he caught sight of the axe the nation was still holding onto, "Any ideas on how to get it down, Mathias?"

"Burn it. Sawing it away and taking it outside would take too long," Iceland got a spark within his eyes. While chopping things up was Denmark's thing, burning things to ashes was his _life_. Well, not his _life_ , per say, but more of it was a past time he rather enjoyed whenever he got the chance. Sirius chuckled and turned back to Kreacher.

"Now go away, Kreacher," the man said coldly.

It seemed that Kreacher did not dare disobey a direct order; nevertheless, the look he gave Sirius as he shuffled out past him and right past the two nations, who backed into the room once the house-elf passed (Denmark still wanted to help the house-elf, but it was a much vaguer feeling than earlier, the grumpy creature having just insulted someone who was basically his new best friend) ,was redolent of deepest loathing and he muttered all the way out of the room.

"— comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher around, oh my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw the house now, scum living in it, her treasures thrown out, she swore he was no son of hers and he's back, they say he's a murderer too —"

"Keep muttering and I will be a murderer!" said Sirius irritably (causing Iceland and Denmark to burst out into a new round of giggles), and he slammed the door shut on the elf.

"Sirius, he's not right in the head," said Hermione pleadingly, causing Iceland and Denmark to look at her in a ' _No, really?'_ kind of way, "I don't think he realizes we can hear him."

"He's been alone too long," said Sirius, "taking mad orders from my mother's portrait and talking to himself, but he was always a foul little —"

"If you just set him free," said Hermione hopefully, with the two Nordics' nodding along, "maybe —"

"We can't set him free, he knows too much about the Order," said Sirius curtly. "And anyway, the shock would kill him. You suggest to him that he leaves this house, see how he takes it."

Sirius walked across the room, where the tapestry Kreacher had been trying to protect hung the length of the wall. Iceland, Denmark, and the others in the room followed.

The tapestry looked immensely old; it was faded and looked as though Australia's koala had gnawed through it in places; nevertheless, the golden thread with which it was embroidered still glinted brightly enough to show them a sprawling family tree dating back (as far Iceland could tell) to the Middle ages. Large words at the very top of the tapestry read:

 **The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black**

 **"Toujours Pur"**

"You're not on here!" said Harry after everybody had finished scanning the bottom of the tree closely.

" I used to be there," said Sirius, pointing at a small, rounded, charred hole in the tapestry, rather like a cigarette burn (proving to Iceland the tapestry could be burned). "My sweet old mother blasted me off after I ran away from home — Kreacher's quite fond of muttering the story underneath his breath." Iceland had noticed, and knew it quite well by that point having passed the creature multiple times in the hallway on his way to meals.

"You ran away from home?"

"When I was about sixteen," said Sirius. "I'd had enough."

"Where did you go?" asked Harry, who was staring at the man. Iceland started to tune out the conversation, having already heard most of it off of both Kreacher and Sirius, and turned towards Denmark, starting a small conversation on what Iceland had missed and how he would receive paperwork while he was at the school (much to his dismay, Denmark had brought along a whole briefcase filled with Iceland's paper wok for the next two months [Iceland had been praying that Vigdís would let him off with no paperwork this one time, but that woman had raised children and knew all of the nation's tricks]).

* * *

To Iceland's delight, Denmark had taken sometime off work to stay with him at Grimmaud Place for the next week to help to with the house (Iceland still had no idea why the man loved cleaning so much), and help Iceland get through the paperwork quickly. Mrs. Weasley kept them most everybody else working very hard over the next few days. The drawing room took three days to decontaminate; finally the only undesirable thing left in the room was the rattling writing desk; Moody (who neither Iceland nor Denmark had met yet) had not yet dropped by headquarters yet, so nobody was quite sure what was inside of it. Iceland and Denmark had done a joint 'operation' the same day the latter had arrived, burning off the Black family tapestry Sirius hated so much in a casual way, the others in the room watching them and wondering how the two could burn off an old antique so casually (to the two brothers, the tapestry was fairly new so they didn't really give a fuck).

They moved from the drawing room to a dining room on the ground room (which is how Iceland and Denmark knew they were done cleaning the drawing room, as the dining room table was where they were doing the work. The others never never questioned the papers, thinking Iceland was helping Denmark with something for the latter's job, and none of the young cleaners could read either Danish or Icelandic) where they found spiders large as saucers (Iceland to say 'GODDAMNIT AUSTRALIA' on instinct. The others laughed, thinking it was a joke towards Australia's deadly wildlife,and Iceland laughed along, thanking the lord for the save) lurking in the dresser. Ron left the room hurriedly to make a cup of tea and did not return for an hour and a half. The others explained to the two that Ron was terrified of spiders, causing Denmark to tell the story of Australia's first world meeting, and how England reacted when he saw a large spider on his desk (with human names of course [England forever denied he screamed like a girl]). The china, which bore the Black crest and motto, was all thrown unceremoniously into a sack by Sirius with a resounding crash, and the same fate met a set of old photographs in tarnished silver frames, all of whose occupants squealed shrilly as the glass covering them smashed. Without even looking, Denmark whipped out his wand and sent a Banishing Curse at the photos, then sticking it behind his ear and returning to calculations about the trade deficit between Iceland and Sweden.

Iceland and Denmark found it vaguely amusing that the others were not so much cleaning as they were waging war on the house, which was putting up a very good fight, aided and abetted by Kreacher (though the two joined the fight four days in, having finished the paperwork Denmark brought along). The house-elf kept appearing wherever they were congregated, his muttering becoming more and more offensive as he attempted to remove anything he could from the rubbish sacks. Sirius went as far as to threaten him with clothes, but Kreacher fixed him with a watery stare and said "Master must do as Master wishes," before turning away and muttering very loudly, "but Mater will not turn Kreacher away, no, because Kreacher knows what they are up to, oh yes, he is plotting against the Dark Lord, yes, with these Mudbloods and traitors and scum..."

At which Sirius, ignoring Hermione's protests, seized Kreacher by the back of his loincloth and threw him bodily from the room. Not even Denmark had much sympathy left for the house-elf.

The door bell rang several times a day, which consistently distracted everybody except Denmark and Iceland, whom were used to trying to work at World Conferences (if anything, the silence was more disorientating than any other noises). It was also a cue for Harry and the others to attempt to eavesdrop. Among some of the visitors, Iceland had the chance to meet his Potions professor, Severus Snape, whom the small island nation thought was an asshole, and his Transfiguration teacher, who Iceland thought was polite enough, and the subject seemed interesting. Both were always too busy to linger. Neither of the teachers seemed very taken with Denmark, who was very overenthusiastic over meeting Iceland's teachers, and mortified the country by sharing stories about the boys adventures as a child ( _"Remember that time you burst into the room shouting 'BLUE FROGS IN SPACE'?"_ ), like an embarrassing parent. Iceland was very close to disowning his brother.

Sometimes, however, the visitors stayed to help; Tonks joined them for a memorable afternoon in which they found a murderous old ghoul lurking in an upstairs toilet (Denmark shocked all the wizards by severing the old creature clean in half with his appearing-out-of-nowhere axe once the ghoul decided Iceland would be a good meal), and Lupin, who was staying in the house with Sirius but who left it for long periods to do mysterious work for the Order (Denmark knew what was happening, apparently Dumbledore decided having somebody as high up in government as Denmark is [albeit the Danish government] would help. and therefore inducted him into the order), helped them repair a grandfather clock that had developed the unpleasant habit of shooting heavy bolts of lighting at passersby. Mundungus redeemed himself slightly in Mrs. Weasley's eyes by rescuing Ron from an ancient set of purple robes (both Denmark and Iceland thought the article of clothing was hideous) that had tried to strangle him when he removed them from their wardrobe. Denmark thought the situation was hilarious, even Iceland had a small smile on his face, which he hid behind his hand as Sirius burned the fabric.

On Wednesday evening, while Denmark and Iceland were quietly conversing in Danish, Mrs. Weasley turned to Harry during dinner and said quietly, "I've ironed your best clothes for tomorrow morning, Harry and I want you to wash you hair tonight too. A good first impression can work wonders."

Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Ginny, Denmark, and Iceland all stopped talking (the last two because they didn't get why this was such a big deal) and looked over at the raven-haired boy. Harry nodded.

"How am I getting there?" he asked Mrs. Weasley, confusing Iceland and Denmark, whom had no idea what anyone was talking about.

"Arthur's taking you to work with him," said Mrs. Weasley gently.

Mr. Weasley smiled encouragingly at Harry across the table.

"You can wait in my office until it's time for the hearing," he said.

Harry looked over at Sirius, and the kid looked ready to ask a question before Mrs. Weasley spoke.

"Professor Dumbledore doesn't think it's a good idea for Sirius to go with you, and I must say —"

"— think he's _quite right,_ " said Sirius though clenched teeth.

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips.

"When did Dumbledore tell you that?" Harry said, staring at Sirius.

"He came last night, when you were in bed," said Mrs. Weasley.

Sirius stabbed moodily at a potato with his fok. Harry dropped his eyes to his plate. Iceland decided he was done not knowing what was going on, and opened his mouth to ask a question.

"Mind explaining what exactly you're all talking about?" Iceland closed his mouth and turned to look at Denmark, who was wearing a distinctly annoyed look on is face.

"Harry has been accused of a violation of the International Statute of Secrecy and is going to be put on trial for that and underage magic!" Hermione exclaimed, and it was very clear that she was ticked off with the situation. There was a beat of silence around the table as Denmark raised an eyebrow.

"So he's breached the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and what I assume would be section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy? If I may ask, what exactly is this 'unreasonable' use of underage magic that a fifteen year old boy not even out of school is being put on trial for?" the others launched into an animated retelling of the story, Harry sitting there looking vaguely amused at how his friends were waving there arms wildly as they talked. At the end Denmark looked _pissed_. Iceland inched his chair away a centimeter. The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath then reopened them.

"Emil, kan du gå få mig en pen og et par ark papir," Denmark said to his little brother flatly. It wasn't question, it was a demand.

"Men —" Iceland started to argue.

" _Nu_."

Iceland nodded, eyes wide, and stood up and a few minutes later there was dead silence around the table as Denmark's pen flew across his third pice of paper. There was a soft _'click'_ sound as the Dane set the pen down on table, and folded the (what Iceland presumed to be) letter and scribbled a name on the front and handed it to Iceland.

"Få Mister Søpapegøje at give denne til Finland og Sverige."

"Hvorfor er du sende et brew til Finland og Sverige?"

"Jeg hag brug for at få tilladelse til at afskære handel med magiske storbritannien."

Iceland's eyes widened as he realized what Denmark was planning to do, before smirking and racing up the stairs.

* * *

 **Emil, Kan du gå få mig en pen og et par ark papir - Emil, can you go get me a pen and a few sheets of paper**

 **Men — - But —**

 ** _Nu_ \- _Now_**

 **Få Mister Søpapegøje at give denne til Finland og Sverige - Get Mister Puffin to give this to Finland and Sweden**

 **Hvorfor er du sende et brew til Finland og Sverige?**

 **Jeg hag brug for at få tilladelse til at afskære handel med magiske storbritannien - I need permission to cut off trade with magical Britain**

 **Ok, I am _so sorry_ that this chapter took so long to get out! I was on vacation the week the first three chapters came out, and now I'm back at school and, sick of the 'You're the disappointment of this family' looks I get from my parents, I have been trying harder to get good grades. Plus, living in the good ol' United States, I had to take the TerraNova (no, I am not missing a space, that is actually how they spell the name of the test. It's weird, I know) standardized test. Joy.**

 **As many of you will probably be able to tell, this is a filler chapter, and I am so sorry you had to wait two whole weeks for a _filler chapter_. But I had an idea, and this was the only way I could think of to set it up. Plus, a reviewer, by the name of LaserkittenLucy, who had the _ingenius and beautiful_ suggestion of having a howler sent to Iceland from Sweden and Finland, plus a reference to Finland being Sweden's wife :3 (SuFin has got to be canon, I do not care what you tell me), a way better idea than I could ever come up with. I also plan to upload ever weekend. Ish. It's not going to be consistent everywhere, if you factor in timezones and stuff, but I'll try.**

 **Anyways, sorry for the crappy quality of this chapter, I spent the past week working on this (well, technically I worked on it last week as well but I only wrote, like, 86 words), and I had no idea how I was going to do this chapter. I had some notes that I made on my graphing calculator (fancy) while I was supposed to be paying attention in Math, but they were generally nonsense misspelled little details I wrote, with such beauties like 'iceland is smol' and 'iceland is a total sass machine like tf wer u thinking the wizards r like dafauq how can some1 so smol be so sassy'... I may have been a little tired at the time.**

 **Moving forward, until next time!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Quick Author's Note: This is a Denmark centric chapter, told mainly from Harry's point of view. There will be little to no Iceland appearances, but definitely some mentions. This is the chapter were the seeds of suspicion about Iceland and Denmark are planted, though he hasn't gotten to the Hetalia x Harry Potter golden standard of running around accusing them of being Death Eaters or something yet.**

* * *

"Will it be Aurors who catch them?"

"Oh no, this is too trivial for Aurors, it'll be the ordinary Magical Law Enforcement Patrol — ah, Harry, this is Perkins."

A stooped, timid looking old wizard wit fluffy white hair had just entered the room, panting, Mathias following right behind, his small hat sat even more crookedly on his head than usual, suggesting he had been in a rush.

"Oh Arthur!" 'Perkins' said desperately, without looking at Harry. "Thank goodness, I didn't know what to do for the best, whether to wait for you here or not, I've just sent an owl to your home but you've obviously missed it, this young man came in to tell me you were already here — an urgent message came ten minutes ago —"

"I know about the regurgitating toilet," said Mr. Weasley. Harry was very sure (some details of that morning became blurred with the sudden panic he was being put through) he saw Mathias face-palm, making him snicker.

"No, no it's not the toilet, it's the Potter boy's hearing — they've changed the time and venue — it starts at eight o' clock now and it's down in old Courtroom Ten —" Mathias started to tap his foot impatiently, looking distinctly annoyed with how long the communication process was taking.

"Down in old — but they told me — Merlin's beard —"

Mr. Weasley looked at his watch, yet out a yelp, and leapt from his chair. Harry noted with vague amusement (since he was now starting to panic even more than he was that morning) that Mathias now went from looking as if he was ready to murder the two old men in the room to sprinting out the door.

Perkins flattened himself against the filing cabinets as Mr. Weasley left the office at a run, following after Mathias, Harry on his heels.

"Why have they changed the time?" Harry said breathlessly as they hurtled past the Auror cubicles; people poked out their heads and stared as they streaked past. Harry though he had left all his insides back at Perkins's desk.

"I've no idea, but thank goodness we got here so early, if you'd missed it it would have been catastrophic!"

Mathias had skidded to a halt besides the lifts and jabbed impatiently at the down button, Mr. Weasley and Harry joining him.

"Come ON!"

The lift clattered into view and the hurried inside. Every time it stopped Mathias and Mr. Weasley would curse furiously and pummel the number nine button on either side o the elevator. Harry was pretty sure he saw the button on Mathias' side crack.

"Those courtrooms haven't been used in years," said Mr. Weasley angrily. "I can't think why they're doing it down there — unless — but no..." Mathias shot a sympathetic look with underlying fury at Mr. Weasley.

A plump witch carrying a smoking goblet entered the lift at that moment, and neither Mr. Weasley nor Mathias elaborated.

"The Atrium," said the cool female voice and the golden grilles slid open, showing Harry a distant glimpse of the golden statues in the fountain. The plump witch got out and sallow-skinned wizard with a very mournful face got in.

"Morning, Arthur," he said in a sepulchral voice as the lift began to descend. "Don't often see you down here..."

"Urgent business, Bode," said Mr. Weasley, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet and throwing anxious looks over at Harry. Mathias was starting to look calmer, as if he had done this thousands of times before.

"Ah, yes," said Bode, surveying Harry unblinkingly. "Of course."

Harry barely had any emotion to spare for Bode, but his unfaltering gaze did not make him feel any more comfortable.

"Department of Mysteries," said the cool female voice, and left it at that.

"Quick, Harry," said Mr. Weasley as the lift doors rattled open, and they sped up a corridor that was quite different from those above. The walls were bare; there were no windows and no doors apart from a plain black one set at the very end of the corridor. Harry expected them to go through it, but instead both Mr. Weasley and Mathias seized him by different arms and dragged him to the left, where there was an opening leading to a flight of steps.

"Down here, down here," panted Mr. Weasley, taking two steps at a time. Mathias was taking the steps by fives, landing more gracefully than a cat on each one and not even breaking a sweat yet. Harry though this was strange, but pushed it to the back of his mind to think about it when this whole trial shenanigan was over. "The lift doesn't even come down this far... _why_ they're doing it there..."

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance to that which led to Snape's dungeon at Hogwarts, with rough stone wall and torches in brackets. The doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with iron bolts and keyholes.

"Courtroom... ten.. I think... we're nearly... yes."

Mr. Weasley stumbled to a halt outside a grimy dark door with an immense iron lock and slumped against the wall, clutching at a stitch in his chest. Mathias smoothly skidded to a stop out side the door, grabbed Harry and started to brush him off.

"You need to catch your breath and cam down," Mathias said seriously, patting down the boy's hair, which had been messed up during the run. "Don't let them intimidate you, and be confident in your answers."

"Wait, why are you here?" Harry asked, suddenly realizing that, to his knowledge, the Dane had no reason to be present at the court meeting.

"Not important right now, just go along with whatever I say."

Mathias turned around, and Harry's heart was beating a violent tattoo against his Adam's apple. He swallowed hard and watched as Mathias turned the heavy-looking iron door handle, and stepped inside, the Dane staying outside and swinging the door shut.

Harry gasped; he could not help himself. The large dungeon he had entered was horribly familiar. He had not only seen it before, he had _been_ here before: This was the place he had visited inside Dumbledore's Pensieve, the place where he had watch the Lestranges sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.

The walls were made of dark stone, dimly lit by torches. Empty benches rose on either side of him, but ahead, in the highest benches of all, were many shadowy figures. They had been talking in low voices, but as the heavy door swung closed behind Harry and ominous silence fell.

A cold male voice rang across the courtroom.

"You're late."

"Sorry," said Harry nervously. "I-I didn't know the time had changed."

"That is not the Wizengamot's fault," said the voice. "An owl was sent to you this morning. Take your seat."

Harry dropped his gaze to the chair in the center of the room, the arms of which where covered in chains. He had seen those chains spring to life and bind whoever sat between them. His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked across the stone floor. When he sat gingerly on the edge of the chair the chains clinked rather threateningly but did not bind him. Feeling rather sick, he looked up at the people seated at the bench above.

There were about fifty of them, all, as far as he could see, wearing plum-colored robes with an elaborately worked silver W on the left-hand side of the chst and all staring down their noses at him, some with very austere expressions, others looks of frank curiosity.

In the very middle of the front row sat Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. Fudge was a portly man who often sported a lime-green bowler hat, though today he had dispensed with it; he had dispensed too with the indulgent smile he had once worn when he spoke to Harry. A broad, square-jawed witch with very short gray hair sat on Fudge's left; she wore a monocle and looked forbidding. On Fudge's right was another witch, but she was sitting so far back on the bench that her face was in shadow.

Harry could hear the door swing open and shut, and the _tap, tap, tap, tap_ of footsteps approaching behind him. "Minister Fudge, it's been a while." He turned to see Mathias right behind his chair, looking up at the fatty man with a smile that was _way_ too friendly to be anything but fake. Fudge's eyes widened when he saw the Dane, his face lightening several shades.

"A-ah, Mr. Collar-"

"Køhler," Mathias said calmly, though Harry could see the slight twitch in his smile, showing his annoyance at his last name being mispronounced.

"Yes, Mr. Koolah," Harry could the Dane tense, a glint in his eyes suggesting he was only just able to keep himself from attacking to stocky man, "it's a pleasure to see you again."

"Likewise."

"If I may ask, why we have the pleasure of your presence?"

"Well, since you don't seem to remember," Mathias' smiled widened, "the Scandinavian ambassador for the British Ministry alerted you that the Scandinavian review of he British Ministry of Magic was rescheduled for today. The Scandinavian Magical Government wanted to see what the fuss over a case of underage magic and minor infringement of the International Statute of Secrecy was about, and the appointment was scheduled to start at seven thirty, but you didn't seem to be in your office, and your secretary refused to tell me where you were at the time." Harry watched as Fudge seemed to pale several more shades as Mathias continued to speak. Harry couldn't come up with a good reason why the head of the Ministry of Magic would be so afraid of someone who couldn't even be twenty five yet! "I happened to hear that you yourself had rescheduled a court hearing to interfere with our meeting, so I decided to come down and see what was so important." Mathias' smile dropped, and he set a heavy gaze upon the Minister, though it wasn't quite a glare, but it was close. "And it seems you have decided it necessary to have the amount of court necessary for a murder trial to have a disciplinary hearing for a fifteen year old boy, the very one that the SMG requested to have a representative present at."

Mathias boots tapped as he crossed the room, and turned to sit down at the end of one of the benches. Despite the fact that almost all the Wizengamot members faces were covered in shadows, Harry could still somehow see the Dane's face in the dimly lit room. Mathias smiled as he crossed arms and legs simultaneously, seeming to send shivers down the spines of every political figure in that room, and most definitely Harry's.

"It's a good thing I showed up then, yes? Wouldn't want you to be impeached for irresponsible behavior, would we?" Fudge was almost translucent at this point, very close to visibly shaking, though you could see his tremors if you squinted.

"N-no, of course not, Mr. Koolah," Harry almost didn't catch the stumble in the Minister's words, but he had to wonder, what about the Dane was so frightening? "I-if you would please wait a little while, I will address your woes as soon as possible."

"Of course."

Harry was thoroughly unnerved, as he watched Mathias pull out a small book, and started to write, glancing up every once in a while. As the trial progressed Dumbledore showed up, but Harry couldn't help but glancing over to the Dane several times, his very presence making the young boy uncomfortable. He felt as if he was trying to answer questions at his trial with a full army standing behind him, the strange feeling causing him to stutter and stumble his words multiple times throughout the trial. Once the trial was over, Dumbledore's abrupt departure having taken Harry completely by surprise, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Mathias standing behind him, glaring up at the minister. The Dane shook his head and looked down at Harry.

"C'mon, let's get out of here, kid." The Wizengamot were all getting to their feet, talking, and gathering up their papers and packing them away. Harry stood up. Nobody (minus Mathias) seemed to be paying him the slightest bit of attention except the toad-like witch on Fudge's right, who was now gazing down at him instead of at Dumbledore. Ignoring her, he tried to catch Fudge's eye, or Madam Bone's, wanting to ask whether he was free to go, but Fudge seemed quite determined not to notice Harry, and Madam Bones was busy with her briefcase, so he followed Mathias' urging and took a few tentative steps toward the exit and when nobody called him back, broke into a very fast walk. Mathias chuckled at his behavior, the tall man keeping pace with him with little to no effort, his long stride carrying him across the room to the exit in a few seconds.

Harry took the last few steps at a run, wrenched open the door, and almost collided with Mr. Weasley, who was standing right outside, looking pale and apprehensive. Mathias easily dodged the two bodies blocking the exit.

"Dumbledore didn't say —"

"Cleared," Harry said, pulling the door closed after Mathias exited, "of all charges!"

Beaming, Mr. Weasley seized Harry by the shoulders.

"Harry, that's wonderful! Well, of course, they couldn't have found you guilty, not on the evidence, but even so, I can't pretend I wasn't —"

But Mr. Weasley broke off, because the courtroom door had just opened again. The Wizengamot were filing out.

"Merlin's beard," sad Mr. Weasley wonderingly, pulling Harry aside to let them all pass, Mathias stepping back on his own, "you were tried by the full court?"

"I think so," said Harry quietly, at the same time Mathias said, "Yes."

One or two of the passing wizards nodded to Hay as they passed and a few, including Madam Bones, said, "Morning Arthur," to Mr. Weasley, but most averted their eyes. Almost half greeted Mathias, and Harry only became more confused about the Dane. Cornelius Fudge and the toad-like witch were almost the last to leave the dungeon. Fudge acted as though Mr. Weasley and Harry were part of the wall, but again, witch looked almost appraisingly at Harry as she passed. Neither seemed to notice Mathias, who looked thoroughly ticked that his meeting with the Minister was being treated as if it wasn't good enough for the portly man's time. Last of all to pass was Percy. Like Fudge, he completely ignored his father and Harry; he marched right past clutching a large roll of parchment and a handful of spare quills, his back rigid and his nose in the air. The lines around Mr. Weasley's mouth tightened slightly, but other than this he gave no sign that he had noticed his third son.

"JÁ, KAKTUS GÆI! VEISTU HVERSU ERFITT ÞAÐ VAR AÐ FINNA ÞIG?!" Many heads turned up as a loud screeching voice was heard throughout the hallway, a small black puffin flying through the air to attack the spikes that was Mathias' hair. The tall man smiled as he reached up to grab the bird, which only growled (birds could growl?) at him, dropping a letter (though it looked more like a thin package) into Mathias' open palm. The puffin hissed.

"Þakka þér fyrir, litli lundi," Mathias said, releasing what Harry had just realized was Emil's puffin, which only hissed once more and flapped away. Mathias smoothly ripped the envelope open and smiled when he saw the note scribbled onto a small piece of paper that fell out, along with another envelope, this one looking stiff and formal, like one of those ones you imagine someone in a high-up office using. Harry tried to get up onto his tiptoes to read the note, but was unable to read any Icelandic.

 _Ég fékk heimildir og skrifaði bréf fyrir þig. Meðfylgjandi er formleg yfirlýsing (hótun) og bréf frá öllum fimm galdraráðherrunum. Pældu ekki í því hverning ég fékk þetta gert svona hratt, ég bara er virkilega illa við England._ _  
_

"Stadig gal om Torskekrigen, jeg ser," Mathias chuckled, before shaking his head and turning to face Mr. Weasley and Harry. "Sorry, I need to go meet with Minister Fudge, I'll catch you guys later at the house," and without any further words, Mathias' turned on his heel, his long trench coat swished and flared behind him as he disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

"I don't think private matters between myself and the Minister are any concern of yours, Potter," said Malfoy, smoothing the front of his robes; Harry distinctly head the gentle clinking of what sounded like a full pocket of gold. "Really, just because you are Dumbledore's favorite boy, you must not expect the same indulgence from the rest of us... Shall we go up to your office, then, Minister?"

"Certainly," said Fudge, turning his back on Harry and Mr. Weasley. "This way, Lucius." The portly man suddenly jumped when a hand appeared on his shoulder, causing both him and Harry to notice Mathias turning up for the first time.

"So should I reschedule the review, since you seem to be so busy, Minister Fudge?" Mathias asked coldly, though there was friendly smile on his face. Harry shuddered.

"A-ah, Denmark —" Why would the Minister of Magic refer to Mathias as Denmark?

"Mathias Køhler —"

"— Mr. Koolah, then," Mathias 'tch'ed, "I was only —"

"I'll take that as a yes then, I am a busy man minister, and I have work to go catch up on since you have wasted several hours of my time." Mathias calmly handed the envelope to the Minister, who accepted it with a shaking hand. "I must take my leave now."

"O-of c-course." Mathias smiled and spun around and head right towards Harry and Mr. Weasley with an infuriated expression. The Minister turned around shakily and headed towards the lifts. Mathias just stood next to the two wizards, who were looking at him with mild concern as he shook with rage. The second the lift doors closed, the storm was unleashed.

Mathias spun around and kicked the wall, his foot resting what was probably a good fifteen centimeters in, shocking Harry and Mr. Weasley who took a couple steps back from the raging Dane. The man ripped his foot out of the wall and tugged at his hair as he screamed at the ceiling. The hallway might have been empty, but Harry was worried that the people outside of the Ministry building would hear the roar.

"EVERY SINGLE TIME! I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL SLAUGHTER THAT MAN ONE OF THESE DAYS! EVERY SINGLE TIME HE HAS AN EXCUSE!" the Dane continued to rant and rage, calmly slightly by the time their lift reached the Ministry lobby, having by then turned to muttering ways to torture Fudge. Harry listened with mild interest, wondering where he got the idea of tying the Minister's limbs to horse and having the animals run in opposite directions to tear the man apart and dismember Fudge. Well, Mathias was creative, if anything.

The doors slid open and they stepped out into the now almost deserted Atrium. Eric the security man was hidden behind his _Daily Prophet_ again. They had walked straight pas the golden fountain before Harry remembered.

"Wait..." he tole Mr. Weasley and Mathias, and pulling his money bag from his pocket, he turned back to the fountain.

He looked up into the handsome wizard's face, but up close, Harry thought he looked rather weak and foolish. The witch was wearing a vapid smile like a beauty contestant, and from what Harry knew of goblins and centaurs, they were most unlikely to be caught staring this soppily at humans of any description. Only the house-elf's attitude of creeping servility looked convincing. With a grin at the thought of what Hermione would say if she could see the statue of the elf, Harry turned his money bag upside down and emptied not just ten Galleons, but the whole contents into the pool at the statue's feet.

Harry stumbled forward as he felt a thump on his back, and glanced to the side to see a still-pissed-off Mathias standing there, frowning at the sign beside the pool.

 _All proceeds from the Fountain of Magical Brethren will be given to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

Harry was confused for a moment as for why the Dane would be mad at a charity, before remembering that in the Nordic nations, according to Emil, the government paid for medical and health care and that such charities as these were rarely needed. Mathias shook his head before smiling at Harry.

"C'mon, kid. Let's get out of here."

* * *

 **JÁ, KAKTUS GÆI! VEISTU HVERSU ERFITT ÞAÐ VAR AÐ FINNA ÞIG?! - YES, CACTUS GUY! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT WAS TO FIND YOU?!**

 **Þakka þér fyrir, litli lundi - Thank you, little puffin**

 _ **Ég fékk heimildir og skrifaði bréf fyrir þig. Meðfylgjandi er formleg yfirlýsing (hótun) og bréf frá öllum fimm galdraráðherrunum. Pældu ekki í því hverning ég fékk þetta gert svona hratt, ég bara er virkilega illa við England** **\- I got sources and composed a letter for you. Attached is a formal statement (threat) and letters from all five Minister of Magic. Don't wonder how I got done so fast, I just really do not like England.**_

 **Stadig gal om Torskekrigen, jeg ser - Still mad about the Cod Wars, I see**

 **Bad translations are bad. Apologies to anyone who actually speaks Icelandic or Danish, who cringe at Google Translate.**

 **So now Harry had some suspicions about Denmark and, by extension, Iceland. Plot is starting to pick up slightly! Also, for a quick explanation of the Scandinavian Magical Government, which I briefly mentioned in the chapter. The idea behind it is based off of the Nordic Council, just magical! Since apparently most magical societies in the Harry Potter universe have existed for thousands of years, and apparently the Nordic countries are very stable and have smart government, I figured why not create a magical council? It is called the Scandinavian (Denmark, Norway, and Sweden) Magical Government is because I figured it would have been founded before Iceland was discovered and Finland made a free country, in which case it would probably be called the Nordic Magical Government. Also, with the whole 'Scandinavian Review' thing, I figured the International Conference of Wizards or whatever it's called would allow the individual confederations of wizards to check on each other once in a while to make sure no one is getting too powerful, kind of like America's Checks & Balances system (if you don't understand how it works, I honestly don't blame you. The American Government is weird, what, with the Electoral College and all [which, for foreigners who don't care about America, is why Donald Trump is president-elect for my country]).**

 **Anyways, this week I got to go see Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, which was BEAUTIFUL and you should definitely go check it out, even if you are not a fan of Star Wars! Me and my brother, who I will note is two years ten months older than me, were once again been mistaken for twins while buying popcorn for the movie, which is kind of starting to get old. Also in my life, me and my friends have been going around finding pickup lines t and saying them to each other, and seeing how each other will react. Some of my favorites so far are: 'Are you from Stockholm? Because you're the Swedish girl I've ever met' and 'Are you from the Netherlands? Because AmsterDAMN'. Best moment so far is definitely when I turned to my very Australian mother at dinner and said 'Are you from Australia? Because you meet all of my Koala-fications' and without missing a beat my very American father said 'I think you just got yourself dis-koala-fied'. I think I know where my humor comes from now.**

 **Anyways, until next week (or chapter or whatever), Hasta la Pasta!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning: this is once again a filler chapter. It really only covers the history and context behind the Icelandic lullaby 'Sofðu unga ástin mín', which I recently looked up and decided it would be interesting to include in this story, plus thouroughly disturb the Wizards, which is alway a plus. It also addresses the absence of licorice in the entire fanfic, and shows Ice getting drunk with Denmark, which I thought was amusing. I just thought I would upload a small little chapter for those celebrating the holidays this week.**

* * *

Iceland was sitting calmly in the kitchen, the only sound in the cavernous room being th _e_ scratching of his pen as it danced its way across the paper in front of him. The petit boy barely even reacted when the kitchen door bursted open, an angry Denmark storming through and ripped open the pantry to grab a couple bottles of Fire Whiskey, and then continued to throw himself onto the chair next to Iceland with a loud _thunk_.

"Fire Whiskey. That bad, huh? What happened this time?"

"The asshole moved Harry's court meeting to start half an hour after our appointment was scheduled, and didn't even show up, so I waited through that after reminding him that I have the power to impeach him for irresponsible behavior, and _then he made another meeting right after that_ so I just came back here after handing him the statement you drafted," the Lego enthusiast groused, reaching blindly for his bottle of whiskey and popped it open with his thumb, taking a large swig. Iceland returned to his writings as the Dane wallowed in his own misery.

"What was the conclusion to the case?"

"Cleared of all charges." A comfortable silence lasted for a few minutes between the brothers, Denmark continuing to down the magical alcohol. "What did you even say in that letter, anyways?"

"I told him that if the British Ministry continues to have this bad of judgement, then the Scandinavian Magical Government and it's subdivisions will report them to the International Wizards Confederation, where the British Ministry will be taken down and nearby countries will help run it as the IWC restructures to system. In other words, it would throw Fudge out of power," Iceland said as paused to bite one of the jelly rolls that Mrs. Weasley had given him for breakfast, as she had quickly realized neither of the Nordics were very accustomed to traditional British 'cuisine' (if you could even call it that). Denmark whistled.

"I knew I raised you right kid," Denmark said, starting to look more relaxed as he moved to the next bottle of Fire Whiskey, tossing the one he had just drained dry over his shoulder where it landed with a resounding _crash,_ telling Iceland very clearly that the glass bottle had shattered. He made a mental note to clean that up later. The Dane gulped down more of the alcohol, slamming the bottle back down onto the table. Glancing at the wooden furnishing, Iceland was fairly sure that Denmark had cracked the table. "You know, getting your death threats in a row. You-you're my little Viking, Icey," the Dane said, ruffling the boy's hair. Iceland whacked his hand away.

"Stop it Denmark. You're drunk, and I made a political threat, not a death one." Denmark looked up at the ceiling, taking another large gulp of Fire Whiskey as he visibly became more intoxicated.

"Oh. Well, politics are overrated anyways." The Dane looked at the Icelander, blinking at the lithe boy. "Diplomacy is something the beaurocrats use to make the peasants think they actually give a fuck about what happens to other people when in actuality everybody just wants to commit fratricide or homicide or whatever the fuck people call it nowadays. We all hate each other, even though there's no purpose in anything," Denmark took one more swig at the end of this sentence, looking into the bottle to see if any of the alcohol was left, before tossing it over his shoulder to join it's predecessor before reaching for the next. "Nobody exits on purpose. Nobody belongs anywhere." Iceland raised an eyebrow at the obviously drunk Dane before sighing and standing up and heading to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. "Everybody's gonna die," Iceland could hear his half-brother's voice fading slightly as he entered the kitchen a couple of meters away. "Drink with me?" Iceland looked over to the Dane, whom he could see Denmark looking at him hopefully as he held out a bottle of the Fire Whiskey. Iceland sighed before walking back. Back in Denmark (the land, not the personification), the Dane had taken him drinking all the time, so what was the difference? Besides, Denmark was right, life was sort of pointless, might as well enjoy it while it lasts, right?

* * *

Denmark had Apparated to the grimy old house ahead of Mr. Weasley and Harry, so it was about an hour later when people came bustling into the kitchen for lunch, the first being Sirius who just laughed at the obviously drunk brothers, who were holding a slurred conversation in somewhat broken English, with random words in Icelandic, Danish, and Polish from the small albino boy, and Danish, German and Swedish from the Viking thrown in at random points, making the whole conversation sound rather... interesting, if you will. Mrs. Weasley took away the Dane's alcohol, and smacked Denmark over the head, causing the drunk nation's head to slam into the table in front of him, his failing motor skills allowing the assault to impact the Dane more than it should. Iceland giggled hysterically, before Mrs. Weasley snatched the bottle of Fire Whiskey away from the boy, causing a long _'Noooooooo,'_ to come from the despairing Icelander. The two passed out shortly after, the occupants of the room deciding it was in their best interests to leave the intoxicated foreigners alone, having seen what the Dane could do with an axe.

The next day, Denmark and Iceland were very tempted to bail on the whole 'get Iceland a magical education' operation, Mrs. Weasley deciding to lecture Denmark about being a responsible brother, and Iceland on having better judgement. Both heads were whacked when they brought up the point that drinking at age fifteen was completely legal in Denmark, as long as the Icelandic boy had a guardian (generally the Danish personification, as Norway, Sweden, and Finland believed that Iceland should wait until he was physically eighteen before taking the boy to a bar, despite the fact that they had all allowed him to have mead with them back in the Viking and Middle Ages) with him.

Denmark went home later that same day, hugging goodbye to Iceland before disappearing with a loud _crack_.

* * *

Over the next few days, Iceland mostly kept to himself, continuing to study the books he had abandoned a week prior, having been distracted by Denmark's visit. He was also going into severe licorice withdrawal, and he was pretty sure the others had started to notice, especially Mrs. Weasley, whom had been finding excuses to be in same general vicinity as Iceland since the drinking incident with Denmark. The woman had fussed over him once he woke up with a hangover, leaving Denmark to fend for himself, making sure the others left him alone until he was better. It made Iceland slightly uncomfortable, not used to someone taking care of him whenever he had a hangover, since the other Nordics firmly believed in dealing with the consequences of drinking on your own. Plus, neither Iceland nor Denmark wanted Norway to find out that the Dane took the small boy drinking. Iceland had almost laughed when Mrs. Weasels was ranting at the brothers about how it was such a bad decision to drink as much alcohol as the two had. The woman had obviously never visited Iceland on New Years Eve.

Anyways, back to the licorice withdrawal. Iceland had no idea it was possible to go into withdrawal for a candy, but considering how much the Icelander ate it, it should have been no surprise, especially if you also consider how the boy had eaten so much of it quite regularly for so long. The words on the book in front of him ( _'A History of Magic'_ he thought, when it should really be called _'Magical History of Great Britain'_ considering it didn't really ever cover anywhere else) danced across the page, jumbling together and Iceland could tell he was no longer very coherent. Quietly closing the book, the albino picked it up with two hands and suddenly slammed himself in the head with it, the surprising jolt disturbing Mr. Puffin, who had been resting on the boy's shoulder, a startled squeak coming from his bright orange beak. Everything cleared for a few seconds before it continued to blur. Giving up on reading, Iceland just put the book down and laid down on the coach, deciding some rest would him some good; Mr. Puffin resettled on his stomach. This lasted a few seconds before he felt a familiar pull in conscious.

"Fly over to Iceland and get some licorice from the house, will you? I'll let you have some," the boy said tiredly, almost smiling when he felt the the weight of the small bird disappear from his abdomen. Key word there was almost.

"Thought ya'd never ask!" The puffin screeched before fly out the window. Iceland just sighed at his bird. He didn't even know how the creature talked in the first place, much less how he did so like a mafioso. Iceland started to drift away as the fluttering of Mr. Puffin's wings faded away, his comprehension of the world around him disappearing with it.

* * *

Iceland awoke to someone shaking him and calling his name.

"Farðu í burtu Finnland," Iceland said sleepily, whacking the hand away and turning over, his other arm reaching for a duvet that wasn't there.

"Come on, Emil! Wake up!" Iceland opened an eye to look at the blurred figure, whom he couldn't place straight away. Then, he suddenly realized something, shooting up from the couch.

"Bíddu, hvað í fjandanum ertu að gera í húsinu mínu?!" the boy blurted before he took in his surroundings. He turned as red one of Spain's tomatoes, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head as his posture relaxed, looking up at Hermione. "Sorry, that doesn't usually happen."

"No, no, it's quite alright," Hermione said, helping Iceland off of the couch. "I just came up to tell you that dinner was ready." Iceland hummed in affirmation.

"Has Mr. Puffin gotten back yet?"

"Is that what your bird's name is?" Iceland's cheeks flared up once more, looking away as he rushed out of the room, Hermione following close behind.

"I got him when I was three," decades. "It's a better name than Tino would have given him, anyways."

"What do you mean by that, Emil?"

"He and Berwald got a puppy a few years back. Tino named him Hantamago." Hermione giggled behind her hand. "I don't know where that Finn gets his names from, because at least for mine I have an excuse." Hermione smiled as they reached the bottom of the last flight of stairs.

"Well, to answer your earlier question, no, he's not back yet, as far as I know."

"Oh, alright. Takk." The bushy haired girl looked thoughtful as Iceland said this.

"I've been wondering this for a while, but what exactly does takk mean?"

"Hm? Oh, it's Icelandic and Norwegian for thanks. Danish, if you remove one of the k's. In Swedish it's tack, and for Finnish it's kiitos." Iceland answered as they turned into the kitchen, grabbing a bowl of the delicious stew Mrs. Weasley made every night. The duo took the last two chairs at the table as they continued their conversation, across from Harry and Ron.

"Those are the Nordic states, right?"

"Mm-hm," Iceland responded through a mouthful of stew.

"Why does Finnish sound so different from the other two, though?"

"All the Nordic states speak Northern-Germanic languages except for the Finnish, who speak a Finno-Ugric language instead. They don't sound nearly as aggressive."

"How so?"

"Take saying 'good day', for example. In Icelandic, it's 'góðan dag,' in Danish, Norwegian and Swedish it's 'god dag'."

"I see what you mean by aggressive."

"Yup. But in Finnish you say 'hyvää päivää,'" Iceland said, imitating Finland's endless cheer. Hermione burst out laughing, drawing the attention of both Harry and Ron. Iceland repeated the statement with the same cheer to the two, who found it just as amusing even if they didn't understand what Iceland and Hermione had just been talking about. Soon every body had caught on, and then all of the teens around the table were asking Iceland to say things in different Nordic tongues, mainly Icelandic after he explained how close it was to being the tongue of the Vikings. They found the way Iceland rolled his r's and pronounced many vowels and consonants hilarious, and his Icelandic accent in his English was suddenly a laughing stock too, as they had finally noticed the weird way he would pronounce many of the words, sometimes not pronouncing the vowels anywhere near correct at all. This was what kept them not-bored the whole evening since Tonks was out on Ministry business and couldn't entertain them endlessly with her nose. The adults just chuckled and returned to their conversations. Eventually they ran out of phrases and just asked him to sing a random lullaby, and Iceland obliged, praying to the lord that this was the last one.

"Sofðu unga ástin mín

Úti regnið grætur

Mamma geymir gullin þín

Gamla leggi og völuskrín

Við skulum ekki vaka um dimmar nætur

það er margt sem myrkrið veit

minn er hugur þungur.

Oft ég svarta sandinn leit

svíða grænan engireit.

Í jöklinum hljóða dauðadjúpar sprungur.

Sofðu lengi, sofðu rótt,

seint mun best að vakna.

Mæðan kenna mun þér fljótt,

meðan hallar degi skjótt,

að mennirnir elska, missa,

gráta og sakna." Everybody, including the adults who had stopped to listen to the tiring yet smooth and quiet voice of the Icelander, clapped politely when he finished.

"What is that one about, Emil?" To the albino's surprise, it was not Hermione who had asked a question this time, but Harry, the black-haired boy he had yelled at when the boy had arrived and hadn't really talked to since. Iceland looked up at the ceiling in thought, resting his head on his hand.

"Hmm... It was written by an Icelandic poet, Jóhann Sigurjónsson for his play about the most famous Icelandic outlaws, Fjalla-Eyvindur and his wife Halla., who lived in Iceland's highlands in the eighteenth century."

"Who?"

"Forget it. Moving on, Halla sang this song to her baby before she threw it into a waterfall so she could follow her husband on his run from the authorities."

"WHAT?!" was the resounding yell from around the table. Everybody looked horrified. "People in you country actually sing that to their children?" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, looking rather distressed.

"Yup. It's the most beautiful, but probably the most terrifying. In this song, sleeping refers to dying." Most everybody looked green, disgusted with themselves that they had been so entranced and comforted by such a dark song. "As for Halla and Fjalla-Eyvindur... killing own newborn is horrifying, or course. But sometimes, in the harsh reality of Iceland's past, parents had no other choice. There were already too many mouths to feed and every other child was dying of hunger or disease anyway. Or it could be that the mother was not married and would have to face horrible punishment if her guilt of pre-martial sex were brought to light - although the child's father would be let off the hook, naturally - and a fate worse than death could be awaiting the child. It would often be taken away from the mother and become a pauper, and be sent to a farm, often as some kind of slave. It would have to work harder than anybody else, surviving off of scraps from the table an be subjected to bullying and beatings."

"The practice of bera út, abandoning a child in nature to die of exposure, was so important to Icelanders that it was one of the three exceptions they were granted when the nation converted to Christianity in one thousand AD. The other two exceptions were eating horse meat - which you'll still find in the grocer's meat case - and ritual scarification carried out in secret."

"Scarification?" Ron asked, looking ready to puke.

"Scratching, etching, burning or branding designs, words, or pictures into the skin as a permanent body modification," Hermione answered, looking rather sick herself. "It's supposed to cause excruciating pain, it's barbaric." Iceland continued as if he hadn't heard them.

So, even though Icelandic lullabies are creepy, they are also an important testimony to the past. As long as today's children won't be too scared to fall asleep, the rhymes should lull them into slumber." Iceland finished, closing his eyes to avoid the horrified looks for around the table.

"Hold on, you said lullabies, that's plural!" Hermione pointed out, causing Iceland to sigh.

"All of our lullabies are creepy, we live with only fours hours of sunlight for a solid two months of the year and for two on the other side we have to work with twenty, making it rather hard to sleep. Do you think we have the inspiration for happy lullabies?" Iceland deadpanned. The boy was about to get up when there was a sudden squeaking and Mr. Puffin flew in, probably having come back into the house through the still open window in the Black family library. The bird dropped three bags of black licorice wheels into Iceland's lap, who brightened up immediately and ripped open one of the bags, taking a bite out of the wheel instead of unrolling it like boring normal people do. The albino then proceeded to hold one above his head for Mr. Puffin to grab. As Iceland finished the wheel, he pushed his chair back and stood up, exiting the room to go upstairs. His voice could be heard by the still shocked residents of the house a few seconds later, floating into the dining room from the stairs.

"Sweet dreams."

* * *

 **Farðu í burtu Finnland - Go away Finland**

 **Bíddu, hvað í fjandanum ertu að gera í húsinu mínu?! - Wait, what the hell are you doing inside of my house?!**

 **For the lullaby, you can find the lyrics very easily online.**

 **And there is chapter six, another filler and I am so sorry about another having another filler up already. Next chapter I plan to have the trio question Iceland about Denmark and why the hell someone so young holds so much power over the British minister of magic and things like that. Anywho, happy holidays, and merry Christmas to the people who are celebrating this when I upload it to the world (Sorry Australia and New Zealand, didn't mean to forget :(), considering it is one hour into December twenty fith at my Grandmothers house in California. I stayed up to get this out so the it would be in time for Holidays taking place around this time of year, specifically Hanukah and Christmas, which I know (in America at least) are currently taking place.**

 **Anyways, the reason this chapter is so short is because: a. I didn't really know what to write, plus I left Hary Potter and the Order of the Phoenix at home, so I don't have anything in there to go off of and b. I spent much more time than I should have playing trivia crack. I was sitting in the same position for house on my grandmothers couch going 'u little shit how dare u be smarter than me how dare you. *chokes back tears* wanna fight'... So maybe I got a little too into it. Anyways, I have planned several events to occur across the course of this fanfiction, including what I am going to do for Iceland's Christmas break and the majority of October though it may work better to change stuff to make things happen in November and before you ask yes I am being vague on purpose. If there are any errors, please let me know since I typed almost this whole chapter on a mobile device.**

 **Happy Holidays and until next time!**


	7. Chapter 7

It had been few days since the ( _cough_ 'Lullaby' _cough_ ) incident, and Iceland had been purposefully dodging anymore questions about Icelandic culture (most people didn't get it anyways) in a similar fashion to how he would ignore the looks from other countries whenever one of his volcanoes affected them ( _'You've grounded all of my airlines, you git!_ ). He was passing by Harry and Ron's room when he heard a distinguishable retching noise coming from what was probably the Twins, and quickly backtracked to peek into the room, and was very confused by the sight of Mrs. Weasley's arms clenched around Ron's neck, and kissing him all over his face, which was quickly turning a brighter scarlet than Sweden's face when Finland would kiss him (quite the amusing sight, honestly).

"Mum... don't... Mum, get a grip..." he muttered, trying to push her away. As she let go and started to talk to Ron about getting him a reward, Iceland turned to Fred and George for answers.

"Should I ask what's going on?" the lithe boy asked, gaining the attention of the identical redheads.

"Ron's got a shiny new prefect badge."

"We thought it would be Harry for sure."

"Ah," Iceland said, not reacting, deciding to make his escape while he could. Just as he turned around, he heard Mrs. Weasley's voice ring out.

"Oh, Emil, you still have to go get your wand, why don't you come with me?" Shit. Iceland despised shopping with a passion. But, he was a polite person (a trait ingrained into him by Norway and Denmark back when they were required to take him to balls and England when the man stayed over for a bit during World War II), so he did the thing a good person would do.

"Sure."

* * *

Oh, how Iceland regretted his decision of saying yes. I mean, he would have had to do it eventually (*cough* that day, it was the day before he went to Hogwarts *cough*), but maybe during the weekdays when things were less crowded? Seemed like a good idea at the time. For the past hour Mrs. Weasley had been dragging him all over Diagon Alley, talking his ear off about how proud she was of Ron, so you can imagine how relieved he was when he saw someone he knew.

"Li Xiao! Leon, over here!" he called over the bustling crowd of Diagon Alley. A head of choppy chocolate colored hair started to turn his way, light brown eyes locking with Iceland's violet. With a few long strides, the teen had made his way over to the Icelander, casually waving a hand greeting.

"Yo, Emil," Hong Kong greeted, "How've you been? It's been a while."

"It definitely has been, and I'm good. You?"

"Fine," Hong Kong looked like he wanted to say something else, but was cut off by Mrs. Weasley.

"Oh, Emil, who is your friend here?" she asked, finally managing to pause in her chatter about Ron being chosen as a Prefect.

"This is Li Xiao, or Leon. He's one of my brother's colleagues younger brother." Well, technically China was also Iceland's colleague, but it's not like the albino really made an effort to get himself involved in the rest of the world's drama, and never really had a chance to work on any projects with the large nation. In all honesty, he had actually met Hong Kong through England. Denmark had dragged him over to the other island nation's house once to meet with the grumpy Brit and smooth out some trade deals about a century ago, thinking it would help the young territory learn the ropes of being a nation. That was were he met Hong Kong, who was and currently is a colony of England, planned to go back under China's sovereignty soon.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ma'am," Hong Kong said, politely bowing to Mrs. Weasley and snapping Iceland out of his musings. "Do you mind if I take Emil from you?"Mrs. Weasley hesitated for a second, contemplating.

"As long as you remember to go get your wand and stay safe. I need him back at the _Leaky_ _Cauldron_ by a quarter to six," She said, looking satisfied when Hong Kong nodded.

"Don't worry. Emil is safe with me," and with that, Mrs. Weasley smiled and tottered off. Iceland and Hong then proceeded to walk in comfortable silence towards Gringotts, neither being very sociable. That was when the dark haired teen broke the silence.

"What on Earth are you in Diagon Alley? Arthur sent me out to do some shopping for him."

"Mathias is sending me to Hogwarts. And aren't you going back to Yao soon?"

"That sucks. And I'm leaving in about two years."

"Well I guess that means no more short plane rides to visit each other."

"Nope," and the blanket of silence once again surrounded the two best friends, not ever needing many words to be exchanged to know how the other feels. They walked around like that for most of the day, occasionally pointing out something stupid to make the other laugh, sometimes stopping to buy ice cream. Hong Kong eventually resorted to 'Ice Ice Baby' to annoy Iceland enough to get him out of the bookstore.

"Ice."

"..."

"Ice."

"..."

"Ba—"

"Finish that sentence and I will destroy you, do you understand, Rice Rice Baby?"

"... I don't even like rice."

"Exactly."

And after that failed, Hong Kong just bodily dragged Iceland out after he had spent a good hundred galleons on literature. And finally, they reached _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C._ , shuddering slightly at the somehow off-putting tinkle of bells as they pushed open the door. Everywhere, there was one consistent theme. Boxes. _Everywhere_ you looked there were boxes piled upon boxes.

"Boxes Incorporated," Hong Kong muttered to Iceland, making the small boy snort. A small old man, after about a minute, hobbled out from around the desk.

"Here for your first wands, are you? A bit old to start schooling," he said, his silvery eyes not blinking. Iceland figured he was 'Ollivander'.

"I already have one, I'm just accompanying him," Hong Kong said, gesturing to the albino.

"You must be Emil Steilsson then," Ollivander said, nodding to Iceland before turning back to Hong Kong. "And you are...?"

"Li Xiao Chun. But you may call me Leon," the teen said, shaking the elderly man's hand.

"Hmm... very interesting..." Ollivander said, staring at the two. "Well, let's get you measured up and then we'll begin," he said, pulling out two magic measuring tapes.

By the end of the measuring, Iceland was feeling distinctly uncomfortable, not knowing quite sure what half of the measurements were for (the space between his nostrils? Really?). Ollivander seemed to disappear into the piles of boxes that encompassed the shop, reappearing a few seconds later and shoving a wand towards Iceland.

"Here, try this one. Ten and a half inches, swishy. Birch and Unicorn hair." After a few seconds hesitation, Iceland wrapped his long fingers around the handle of the wood, which promptly began to crack. A moment later, the wand exploded. Ollivander had taken a few steps back after handing off the wand, and managed to avoid all injury, and Hong Kong had taken a seat near the door and had started to eat Iceland's ice cream. The boy in question, however, was not so lucky. Splinters from the tough birch wood had caused several slashes to appear across his cheeks (Ollivander was able provide a towel to put on his face until the cuts stopped bleeding [he wasn't able to heal them, since the source of the injury was from a 'wand trial.' Iceland had no idea what that meant, but whatever]), with a few caught in his hair or on his clothes. The blast had burned right through his pristine white gloves and a good inch off of his sleeves (revealing calloused and scarred hands from when Iceland was young and worked on the farms in his land), the rest being decently signed. He was mostly fine, except for the burns then adorning his hands. Iceland was about to snap at Mr. Ollivander, before Hong Kong said 'Keep Calm and Carry On,' earning a glare from his friend (Iceland was very sure England was a bad influence on Hong Kong). And thus, the wand games began.

The first one: obviously exploded, injuries sustained by test subject.

The second one: exploded one of Ollivander's lights, causing a rain of glass to pour upon the three in the room, with Ollivander being the only proficient enough in magic to quickly create an umbrella and avoid injury. Hong Kong and Iceland got identical cuts on opposite sides of their foreheads, which both thought was pretty neat. I mean, it hurt, but look at the silver lining, amiright?

The third one: dissolved into black powder, which Iceland was quick to wash off of his burned hands.

The fourth one: refused to go anywhere near Iceland, seeming to fly away each time the boy tried to grab it, eventually giving up. ( _'I know people generally avoid you, but not wands as well,'_ Hong Kong commented, getting smacked over the head by Iceland)

The fifth one: made boxes fly off the shelves. ( _'Boxes Incorporated is very efficient at shipping,'_ Iceland said, putting the oak wand back onto Ollivanders desk)

The sixth o—

"Mr. Ollivander?" Hong Kong said, disrupting the old man from disappearing back into the mountains of boxes, which were more untidy than they were when the two had entered the shop. "Maybe you should take a look at my wand to get an idea of what to give my friend before he destroys your whole shop," he said, handing over the lightly colored wood with beautiful carvings of Hong Kong orchid tree flowers spiraling around the wand to Ollivander.

"Hmm... Agarwood wood and a dual core of Chinese white dolphin heartstring and fur of the Giant Panda, eleven and one quarter inches... this wand seems tailored to suit people of a very specific land area... Tell me, I can't place either of your accents, where are you two from?" Ollivander asked after few minutes of turning the wand over in his hands and examining every inch of the magical conduit.

"I'm from Hong Kong, but I've been staying in London with a friend of my brother's for a few years to study abroad," Hong Kong said, quickly coming up with the lie off of the top of his head for his accent, that was sort of an odd hybrid between China's and England's.

"I'm from Iceland," Iceland said, looking disinterested as usual. Ollivander stared at the two for a few seconds before slowly nodding and handing Hong Kong's wand back before disappearing into the back of the shop, and did not reappear for a good half hour. The old man returned to the odd sight of Iceland and Hong Kong wrestling on the floor like the five year olds they were, the smaller yelling at the smirking dark haired teen for eating his ice cream. He cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the two teens, who quickly stood up and brushed themselves off.

"Try this," Ollivander said, handing a light brown wand with a spiral of white dryas that encompassed the base and faded halfway up to Iceland. "Gyrfalcon feather and the heartstring of a Norwegian Ridgeback. Willow, ten and a half inches, swishy. Very good for Charms." Iceland paused, holding the piece of wood awkwardly, not sure what to do (he was honestly quite sick of being injured by magical twigs). "Well, go on, give it a wave," Ollivander urged, waving his hands at the Icelander. The albino tentatively waved the wand, shocked as a warm feeling started to flow throughout his veins, as if he had suddenly traveled from his place to Australia. This lasted a few seconds before there was a quick flash of light and it faded, the sting in Iceland's burned hands had disappeared. Everybody in the shop had to blink for a few seconds trying to readjust their eyes. Iceland was shocked when he looked down at the wand to to see the burns on his hand had faded, and his confusion was quickly answered by Ollivander.

"Willow wood has healing powers," the man explained simply, Iceland just nodded, dumbfounded. The feeling had been strange, the wand seeming to be an extension of his arm. Iceland had grown up around wandless magic, used to things like magic circles and magical creatures (sure, both Denmark and Norway had wands, but Norway had his on a shelf, collecting dust except for the one time a year he would dust it off and Denmark generally lost his quite often [plus, both found wands tedious and clunky, preferring the ease of wandless spells]). Hong Kong just shook his head and paid the elderly man, dragging Iceland out of the store and into the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. The albino snapped out of his state of shock, tucking the wand into his coat, pulling on his the spare pair of gloves he carried around (he didn't want to ruin them with another exploding wand), and followed Hong Kong with a dazed look on his face, which did not go unnoticed. The dark haired teen smirked at Iceland.

"You know, my wand is longer than yours," Hong Kong said, twirling his own between his fingers. Iceland gave his friend a confused look before the beautiful rise of realization dawned over his face, whacking the laughing teen over the head while blushing furiously.

* * *

Mrs. Weasley and Iceland returned from Diagon Alley around six, having been delayed by the motherly woman fussing over the two best friends and how they got cuts all over their faces (well, there was really only one on Hong Kong, but whatever), laden with books and carrying a long package wrapped in thick brown paper that Ron took from her with a moan of longing.

"Never mind unwrapping it now, people are arriving for dinner, I want all of you downstairs," she said, but the moment she was out of sight Ron ripped off the paper in a frenzy and examined every nch of his new broom, an ecstatic expression on his face. Iceland had no idea what the big deal was, but it wasn't his problem.

Down in the basement Mrs. Weasley had hung a scarlet banner over the heavily laden dinner table, which read _CONGRATULATION RON AND HERMIONE — NEW PREFECTS_. She looked in a better mood than Iceland had seen her the whole month he had been staying there.

"I thought we'd have a little party , not a sit down dinner," she told Iceland, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny as they entered the room. "Your father and Bill are on their way, Ron, I've sent them both owls and they're _thrilled_ ," she added, beaming.

Iceland and the twins rolled their eyes.

Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, and Kingsley Shacklebolt (whom Iceland had met a few days after he had arrived) were already there and a heavily scarred man with a limp and a part of his nose missing stumped in shortly after Iceland had got himself a butterbeer.

"Oh, Alastor, I am glad you're here," said Mrs. Weasley brightly, as 'Alastor' shrugged off his traveling cloak. "We've been wanting to ask you for ages — could you have a look in the writing desk in the drawing room and tell us what's inside it? We haven't wanted to open it just in case it's something really nasty."

"No problem, Molly..."

Alastor's electric blue fake glass eye (which Iceland had only just noticed and found a slight bit creepy [he figured this was the rumored 'Mad-Eye Moody' that he had heard about when mentioned in conversations]) swiveled upward and stared fixedly though the ceiling of the kitchen.

"Drawing room..." he growled, as the pupil contracted. "Desk in the corner? Yeah, I see it... Yeah, it's a boggart... Want me to go up and get rid of it, Molly?"

"No, no, I'll do it myself later," beamed Mrs. Weasley, reminding Iceland of Finland's can-do attitude. "You have your drink. We're having a little bit of a celebration, actually..." She gestured at the scarlet banner. "Fourth prefect in the family!" she said fondly, ruffling Ron's hair.

"Prefect, eh?" growled Moody, his normal eye on Ron and is magical eye swiveling around to gaze into the side of his head. Iceland had the very uncomfortable feeling it was looking at him and quickly busying himself with his butterbeer, trying to ignore the feeling.

"Well, congratulations," said Moody, still glaring at Ron with his normal eye, "authority figures always attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn't have appointed you..."

Ron looked rather startled at this view of the matter but was saved the trouble of responding by the arrival of his father and eldest brother. Mrs. Weasley was in such a good mood she did not even complain that they had brought Mundungus with them too; he was wearing a long overcoat that seemed oddly lumpy in unlikely places and declined the offer to remove it and put it with Moody's traveling cloak.

"Well, I think a toast is in order," said Mr. Weasley, when everyone had a drink. He raised his goblet. "To Ron and Hermione, the new Gryffindor prefects!"

Ron and Hermione beamed as everyone drank to them and then applauded.

"I was never a prefect myself," said Tonks brightly from across the room behind Harry as everybody moved toward the table to help themselves to food. Her hair was tomato-red and waist length that day; she looked like Ginny's older sister. "My Head of House said I lacked certain necessary qualities."

"Like what?" said Ginny, who was choosing a baked potato.

"Like the ability to behave myself," said Tonks.

Ginny laughed; Hermione looked as though she did not know whether to smile or not and compromised by taking an extra large gulp of butterbeer and choking on it. Iceland cracked a grin, but decided to slide away in the direction of Fred and George, who were huddled in a corner with Mundungus.

Mundungus stopped talking when he saw Iceland, but Fred winked and beckoned Harry closer.

"It's okay," he told Mundungus, "we can trust Emil, we have dirt on him so he can't tell anybody," he said, referring to the time Iceland and Denmark got drunk together, which in the UK, might be able to bring up a case for child neglect.

"Look what Dung's gotten us," said George, holding out his hand to Iceland. It was full of what looked like shriveled black pods. A faint rattling noise was coming from them, even though they were completely stationary.

"Venomous Tentacula seeds," said Iceland dully, recognizing them and shocking Fred and George, who were not expecting the Icelander to know what they were. "Unless you want to make somebody have an uncontrollable nose bleed, I would recommend adding some Romanian Zengweed, because at least that will stop bleeding after while. Unless you two are planning to kill people by letting them bleed out," he said, casually leaning against the wall, glancing over to the side to see the twins, who were looking at each other, having a silent conversation. Fred continued to negotiate a price with Mundungus while George leaned against the wall next to Iceland.

"Interested in a partnership? We could use someone with your encyclopedia of a brain," George muttered, keeping an eye one Mrs. Weasley and Moody, the two people who were the most likely to get them in trouble if found out.

"Give me one good reason."

"Satisfaction of seeing people like Snape covered in pink glitter that can't wash off," he replied, knowing Iceland had met the man and didn't particularly like him.

"Do you have any idea how to make a letter explode like a firework?"

"Not yet, but with you we could probably work it out." Iceland paused for a second contemplating.

"I can live with that. Deal," he said, shaking George's hand before casually walking away to get some food. As he busied himself with a filling a plate, he failed to notice he was standing next to Moody, who seemed to be staring intently at the boy.

"Quite the collection of scars you've got there, boy." Iceland startled, instantly spinning around, holding out the knife he had been holding like a weapon, hand halfway to his coat reaching for the wand he had gotten earlier that day before realizing who had spoken. His face flushed as he quickly put the knife back onto to the plate.

"I'm really sorry about that, I didn't mean to, you just startled me..." To say Iceland was surprised when Moody replied with a booming laugh was an understatement.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" the man shouted, heartily thumping Iceland on the back, causing the boy to stumble.

"Sorry, but I didn't quite catch what you said earlier..." Iceland said, not quite sure to make of the man.

"I said that was quite the collection of scars of you have on your body." Iceland quickly paled, feeling around the collar of his dress shirt, trying to see if it had slipped and if anybody could see the scars of his history and land that adorned the boy's body.

"H-how do you know about that?"

"Not the problem here, boy. What I want to know is how someone as young as you looks as if he's fought in a war." Iceland panicked for a second, his mind racing a thousand miles to find an excuse.

"We have a lot of extreme sports where I'm from, and accidents happen so..." he spluttered, hoping the man would buy it. Moody narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Iceland, who breathed a sigh of relief when Mood walked away.

Mrs. Weasley yawned widely.

"Well, I think I'll sort out that boggart before I turn in... Arthur, I don't want this lot to stay up too late, all right? 'Night, Harry, dear."

She left the kitchen, and Iceland chose to follow, deciding that maybe an early night would help his mind sort through the day's events.

The pale boy was half way through buttoning his pajama top when he heard a loud sob emit from down the hall. Abandoning the task at hand, he stepped out into the hallway, following the choking sound of someone crying. Someone was sobbing in the drawing room.

"Hello?" Iceland said.

There was no answer but the sobbing continued. He fast waslked the rest of the way across the landing, and opened the drawing room door.

Someone was cowering against the dark wall, her wand in her hand, her whole body shaking with sobs. Sprawled on the dusty old carpet, clearly dead, was Ron. Iceland narrowed his eyes, having just seen the boy downstairs.

"Mrs. Weasley?" Iceland asked, addressing the crying woman in the room.

" _R-r-riddikulus!"_ Mrs, Weasley sobbed, pointing her shaking wand at Ron's body.

 _Crack._

Ron's body turned into Bill's, spread-eagles but his back, his eyes wide open and empty. Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever.

 _R-riddikulus!"_ She sobbed again.

 _Crack._

Mr. Weasley's body replaced Bill's, his glasses askew, a trickle of blood running down his face. Iceland suddenly understood. This was the boggart everybody had mentioned. Taking quick steps to cross the room, Iceland kneeled in front of Mrs. Weasley ,gripping the woman's shoulder and trying to make her look at him and not the corpses.

"Mrs. Weasley. Listen to me, this isn't real. Ron is downstairs, so isn't Bill and mr. Weasley, _everybody is fine._ " Mrs. Weasley's grip on reality seemed to come bac her sniffles quieted down, but was focused on something over Iceland's shoulder a sore another loud _crack_ rang out. Iceland ignored it until he heard a loud crash of something breaking behind him.

" **I HATE YOU, I HATE THIS HOUSE, I HATE ALL OF YOU!** " Suddenly rang out in a a loud, surprisingly clear baritone voice as Iceland turned his head, eyes widening as gen saw Denmark punch Sweden. A cacophony of yells in different Nordic languages erupted as a bloody fight escalated between Norway, Denmark, Finland and Sweden, not a single one of them seeming to hesitate in the slightest as they tore eachother apart physically and verbally.

Iceland remembered this. Sweden's rebellion against Denmark, just before the Kalmar Union dissolved. Iceland had been in the corner, covering the ears of Greenland and Faroe Islands, the two being extremely young, rocking them as he tried to ignore the yells and cracks of the Nordics punching each other, the crashes of both ceramic and wooden plates being tossed around. The color drained from his face as he stared the memory down, not hearing the quick patter of feet coming down the hall.

"Mrs. Weasley, Emil, just get out of here!" shouted Harry, staring in shock as he watched the normally cheery Denmark tear apart what looked to be his family. "Let someone else -"

"What's going on?"

Lupin had come running into the room, closely followed by Sirius, with Moody stumping along behind them. Lupin looked from the bloody fight to Mrs. Weasley to the almost translucent Iceland and seemed to understand in an instant. Pulling out his own wand said, very firmly and clearly, " _Riddikulus!_ "

The Nordic fight vanished. A silvery orb hung in the air in the center of where it had taken place. Lupin waved his wand once more and the orb vanished in a puff of smoke. Lupin started to comfort Mrs. Weasley about how it was only a boggart and wasn't really was as Iceland shakily stood up, holding the upper part of his pajama top closed (having abandoned the task of buttoning it to investigate Mrs. Weasley's sobs) and quickly pushed past Moody, Harry and Sirius, two of whom were looking ant him with concern. The third, not so much.

"Mind explains what that was, boy?" Moody's gruff voice rang out from behind him. Iceland stopped in the middle of the hallway, staring at the floor, the neckline on his top giving the three behind him a clear view of the puckered scar crawling up his spine, representing Lakagígar.

"Not particularly, no"

"Well, I recommend you come clean," Moody continued, the heavy _thump, thump, thump_ on the floor telling Iceland the man was coming closer, "because that seems to give a whole different story to those marks than what you told me." Iceland looked over his shoulder to glade at all three, making Sirius and Harry recoil slightly while Moody stood his ground. People say his name is misleading, but honestly? His glare was so full of _ice_ I thought would make Norway and Sweden jealous.

"Well, I recommend you learn what the word 'no' means, since you seem to have trouble with it. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to sleep," Iceland hissed, whipping his head around and stomping back to his room, slamming the door shut behind him.

* * *

 **Okay, I am a in sorry this took so long to get out! I really h** **ave no excuse for this. I mean, I managed to write three thousand words of a chapter where Iceland has to go see England's for some reason I can't remember, but then I realized that plot was kind of going no where, since we are now seven chapters in and still at Grimmauld place, so I scrapped it and spent a whole week trying to figure out how I wanted to write this, even though pretty much my final thoughts before making any desicions in the plot while I was writing it (cough improvising as I went along cough) was 'fuck it.'**

 **Also, if you are wondering about either wand, here is a quick explanation, written by me at midnight after not sleeping all weekend off of what I can remember.**

 **Hong Kong: the name comes from 'fragrant harbor' (don't ask me how, I can't remember off of the top of my head), as it is one of the top producers (exporters? I don't really know, please don't get offended if you're from Hong Kong) of afar wood in the world. Hong Kong orchid tree flower is the city flower, as well as the one on their flag (look it up, they're really pretty). Chinese white dolphins are found in the waters are Hong Kong (I think, I couldn't really find much of anything that was in English), and since a lot of people go with the idea of nations having dual cores whenever they get a wand in a Harry Potter fanfiction, I just decided on the Giant Panda, since I couldn't find any other significant mention of any other animal, and people commonly draw Hong Kong with a panda, so like every other decision on this chapter, I went 'fuck it why not.'**

 **Iceland: white dryas is the national flower, and Willow is a type of tree found in Iceland, and, after reading through 'Ollivander's notes on wand woods' on Pottermore (where has my life gone) I decided this was the best fit. Gyrfalcon is the national bird/animal/I know I should but I'm too lazy to look up which. The Norwegian Ridgeback is to symbolise the Norwegian settlement that started Iceland, mainly Norwegians leaving Norway when they didn't like the government, so I tried to symbolise that with this (plus I couldn't find sufficient information on many Icelandic mythical creatures other than elves, and I don't think anybody wants to see that). It was easier to research than Hong Kong's, at least**

 **And now that I am done boring you with telling you about how this chapter was produced, I think it's time to end this authors note and upload this.**

 **Until next chapter, Hasta la Pasta!**


	8. Chapter 8

**You people might not believe me, but this chapter was _not_ supposed to turn out this long. I actually started skipping things towards the end since it was taking to long to write (crappy technique, I know) and I felt bad about not uploading for so long.**

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Iceland had a troubled night's sleep. The other Nordics wove in and out of his dreams, making him relive the violent arguments at dinner or hushed verbal battles after they thought he, Faroe, and Greenland went to sleep. The other two would often crawl into Iceland's bed at night, often because of a nightmare or a monster under the bed, but, on occasion, they would wake him up crying because 'Mama, Papa, and Big Brothers are fighting again!' Every time, Iceland would tell them it would be over soon, and they would believe him every time. It eventually got to the point where he just moved their beds into his room so he didn't continue to snap awake every time a door opened in the house (that plan failed drastically, he could hear a door slowly creak open from thirty feet away and snap awake ready to comfort Faroe or Greenland. But, on the plus side, at least they didn't need to run across the house to get to his room anymore). He awoke abruptly for no apparent reason, snapping up in the bed as he breathed heavily, his eyesight swimming as he tried to remember what he had been dreaming about. Iceland reached blindly at his bedside table, slipping on his glasses (they looked like Sweden's, Iceland thought sluggishly), not feeling like putting in contacts that day.

Iceland barely registered the yelling that poured up the stairs as he held up his brown military coat, frowning as he finally noticed the extensive damage that had been done to the article of clothing by the wand trials the day before, and his other one had a large tear and was partially stained with blood. Sighing, he slipped off his pajama top and was about to trade it for one of his crisp white dress shirts, when he passed by the mirror on is way to his suitcase. Iceland did a double take, taking a few steps back to look at his bare torso in the mirror, seeing the cut he had gotten two or three weeks back, inflamed and irritated red skin puffed surrounding the laceration. To say Iceland was surprised was an understatement. Nations would usually heal from wounds within two hours. Iceland hadn't checked it the night he got it, thinking it would have already healed by the time he got to bed. Twisting his body to get a clearer look, he hissed as the scabbing on the wound broke, and started to bleed sluggishly, the blood trickling down his side. After running to the bathroom to press a towel to his side, Iceland frowned as he slipped on his white boots, trying to figure out why it hadn't healed at all. Throwing the towel into the laundry basket as he slid on a high collared dress shirt, tying the ribbon around his neck, Iceland pulled out one of his many lopapeysas (seriously, they make up like 90% of his wardrobe) and donned the wooly article as he packed his suitcase.

Then tuning back into the screams that poured up the stairs, Iceland noticed there was a lot of commotion in the house. From what he heard as packed away some books Sirius said he could borrow, he gathered that Fred and George had bewitched their trunks to fly downstairs to save the bother of carrying them, with the result that thy had hurtled straight into Ginny and knocked her down two flights of stairs into the hall; Mrs. Weasley was screaming at the top of her voice.

"— COULD HAVE DONE HER A SERIOUS INJURY, YOU IDIOTS —"

Iceland decided to once again to ignore the yelling, he folded the two ruined military jackets and laid them on top of the books, deciding to fix them later. each one would generally last at least a year before it got damaged to the extent that those ones were. Giving up on being neat with packing, Iceland just threw in his pajamas on top of the brown fabric, roughly closing the lid of the trunk and tucked is wallet (plus a small pouch of galleons Hong Kong had given him the day before) in his pocket. It was too early in the morning to put up with this crap. Poking Mr. Puffin to awaken the bird ('WHY'D YOU HAVE TO WAKE ME UP, PUNK?!'), Iceland had everything together (not as if he ever carried much around anyways) and Mr. Puffin settled on his head to continue napping, he picked up the trunk with a small grunt (disadvantages of not having an army 701) and headed towards the door, leaning lopsidedly to compensate for the large weight of his luggage.

"WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!" Mrs. Weasley bellowed and Iceland sighed, quickly opening the door and heading down the stairs. "Harry, you're to come with me and Tonks," Iceland heard her say. "Leave your trunk and your owl, Alastor's going to deal with the luggage... Emil, that goes for you as well, leave your trunk here and come with me, Harry, and Tonks," Mrs. Weasley finished as Iceland entered the room, who dropped the trunk with a sigh of relief. Harry gave him an odd look, eyes flicking from the glasses to the woolen sweater, but shrugged and decided not to ask any questions. "Oh, for heaven's sake Sirius, Dumbledore said no!"

A bearlike black dog had appeared at Harry's side across the room as Iceland clambered over the various trunks cluttering the hall to get to Mrs. Weasley.

"Oh honestly..." said Mrs. Weasley despairingly, "well, on your own head be it!"

She wrenched open the front door and stepped out into the weak september sunlight. Iceland, Harry and the dog followed her. The door slammed behind them.

"Where's Tonks?" Harry said, looking around as they went down the stone steps of number twelve, which vanished the moment they reached the pavement.

"She's waiting for us just up here," said Mrs. Weasley stiffly, averting her eyes from the lolloping black dog beside Harry. Iceland just tried to stifle his laughs.

An old woman greeted them on the corner. She had tightly curled gray hair and wore a purple hat shaped like a porkpie.

"Wotcher Harry, Emil," she said winking. "Better hurry up, hadn't we, Molly?" she added, checking her watch.

"I know, I know," moaned Mrs. Weasley, lengthening her stride, Iceland struggled to keep up, cursing how short he was, "But Mad-Eye wanted to wait for Sturgis... If only Arthur could have got us cars from the Ministry again... but Fudge wouldn't let him borrow so much as an empty ink bottle these days... _How_ Muggles can stand traveling without magic..." Well, Iceland personally thought planes were a crappy experience, but he liked trains, horseback and boats as means of travel, thank you very much.

But the great black dog gave a joyful bark and gamboled around them, snapping at pigeons, and chasing its own tail. Harry and Iceland couldn't help laughing. Sirius (Iceland assumed the man/dog/whatever was a animangus) had been trapped inside for a very long time (to Iceland's understanding). Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips in an almost Norway-when-Denmark-starts-shouting-in-his-ear-ish way.

It took them twenty minutes to reach King's Cross by foot and nothing more eventful happened during that time than Sirius scaring a couple of cats for Harry's entertainment. Iceland found the man/dog/he-had-no-goddamn-idea hilarious, smiling at the creature the whole time. Once inside the station they lingered casually beside the barrier between platforms nine and ten (Hermione had explained the entrance to the station to Iceland a few days earlier) until the coast was clear, then each of them leaned against it in turn and fell easily through onto platform nine and three quarters (Iceland personally thought it should technically be nine and a half, due to where the barrier was situated, but it wasn't his problem), where the Hogwarts Express stood belching steam over a platform packed with departing students and their families. Iceland suddenly felt a pang of guilt, missing Denmark, Sweden and Finland, but most of all Norway. As much as he vehemently refused any relation to the Norwegian, Iceland did care about and missed his older brother, who had taken care of him on his own for 118 years. Iceland was personally surprised that Norway still cared about him after he had been such a brat to the elder nation.

"I hope the others make it in time," said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, staring behind her at the wrought-iron arch spanning the platform through which new arrivals would come.

"Nice dog, Harry!" called a tall boy with dreadlocks.

"Thanks, Lee" said Harry, grinning, as Sirius wagged his tail frantically. Iceland registered the name in the back of his mind, deciding it was a good idea to at least have some names to put with the many faces he assumed he would meet at Hogwarts.

"Oh good," said Mrs. Weasley, sounding relieved, "Here's Alastor with the luggage, look..."

A porter's cap pulled low over his mismatched eyes, Moody came limping through the archway pushing a cart full of their trunks. Iceland felt a shudder travel up his spine, having the distinct feeling that the man's magic eye was staring right at him.

"All okay," he muttered to Mrs. Weasley and Tonks. "Don't think we were followed..."

Seconds later, Mr. Weasley emerged onto the platform with Ron and Hermione. They had almost unloaded Moody's luggage cart when Fred, George, and Ginny showed up with Lupin.

"No trouble?" growled Moody.

"Nothing," said Lupin.

"I'll still be reporting Strugis to Dumbledore," said Moody. "That's the second time he's not turned up this week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus."

"Well, look after yourselves," said Lupin, shaking hands all round (Iceland just stood back, feeling awkward as the only new person there, and it's not really as if he had any friends among them. Sure, he talked to Hermione, but that was only over books.). He reached Harry last and gave him a clap on the shoulder. "You too, Harry. Be careful." And Iceland had once again faded into the background. What was new.

"Yeah, keep your head down and your eyes peeled" said Moody, shaking Harry's hand too. "And don't forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don't put it into a letter at all."

"It's been great meeting all of you," said Tonks, hugging Hermione and Ginny. "We'll see you soon, I expect."

A warning whistle sounded; the students still on the platform started hurrying onto the train.

"Quick, quick," said Mrs. Weasley distractedly, hugging them at random and managing to catch twice. And missed Iceland. Surprise. "Write... Be good... If you've forgotten anything we'll send it on... Onto the train, now, hurry..."

Iceland moved onto the train himself with practiced ease, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Harry pouring on after him. The three waved at the figures of Tonks, Lupin, Moody (who was still staring at Iceland creepily), and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley that were shrinking rapidly, but the black dog (Iceland believed it was Sirius) was bounding alongside the window, wagging it's tail; blurred people on the platform were laughing to see it chasing the train , and then they turned the corner, and Sirius was gone.

"He shouldn't have come with us," said Hermione in a worried voice.

"Oh, lighten up," said Ron, "he hasn't seen daylight for months, poor bloke." Iceland raised an eyebrow, but pushed the comment aside. It's not like they ever had to live through dark ass winters and had to put up with the sun being gone for over a year due to volcanic ash.

"Well," said Fred, clapping his hands together, "Can't stand around chatting all day, we've got business to discuss with Lee. See you later," and he and George disappeared down the corridor to the right.

The train was gathering still more speed, so the houses outside the window flashed past and they swayed where they stood. Iceland adjusted his weight so that he didn't fall over or disturb Mr. Puffin, who was still sound asleep on his head.

"Shall we go find a compartment, then?" Harry asked Ron and Hermione, and everybody still had yet to remember Iceland was there.

 _'What am I, chopped liver?'_ Iceland thought bitterly.

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.

"Er," said Ron.

"We're — well — Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage," Hermione said awkwardly.

Ron wasn't looking at Harry; he seemed to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on his left hand.

"Oh," said Harry. "Right. Fine."

"I don't think we'll have to stay there all journey," said Hermione quickly. "Our letters said we just get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors from time to time."

"Fine," said Harry again. "Well, I — I might see you later then."

"Yeah definitely," said Ron, casting a shifty, anxious look at Harry. "It's a pain having to go down there, I'd rather — but we have to — I mean, I'm not enjoying it, I'm not Percy," he finished defensively.

"I know you're not," said Harry and he grinned. Hermione and Ron dragged their trunks Crookshanks, and a caged Pigwidgeon off toward the end of train. Iceland sighed.

"Are we going to find a compartment or what?" he asked irritatedly. Ginny and Harry jumped and spun around to see the disgruntled Iceland staring at them in a puffy sweater and glasses. Ginny giggled.

"Come on," she told them, "if we get a move on we'll be able to save them places."

They had carried on for five consecutive carriages before reaching the very last one, where they met a slightly pudgy boy, his round face shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and maintaining a one-handed grip on a struggling toad.

"Hi, Harry," he panted. "Hi, Ginny... Everywhere's full... I can't find a seat..."

"What are you talking about?" said Ginny, who had squeezed past the boy to peer into the compartment behind him. "There's room in this one, there's only Loony Lovegood in here —"

The boy mumbled something about not wanting to disturb anyone.

"Don't be silly," said Ginny, laughing, "she's all right."

She slid the door open and pulled her trunk inside it. Iceland, Harry, and the pudgy kid followed.

"Hi, Luna," said Ginny. "Is it okay if we take these seats?"

The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty-blond hair, very pale eyebrows, and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of butterbeer caps, or that she was reading a magazine upside down. Her eyes ranged over the pudgy boy, Harry, and came to rest on Iceland. She nodded.

"Thanks," said Ginny, smiling at her.

Iceland, Harry, and the boy whom Iceland still needed to know the name of stowed the four trunks and Hedwig's cage in the luggage rack and sat down. Well, Iceland remained standing to rummage around in his trunk before his head popped back up with a stack of papers in one hand and a pen in the other. _Then_ he sat down. A disgruntled puffin settled itself in his lap as he laid out the papers in front of himself. The girl called Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called _The Quibbler_. She did not seem to need to blink as much as normal humans. She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the seat opposite her. Iceland just started to quietly mutter in Icelandic as his pen scribbled signatures and numbers on official looking papers, not that anybody around him could read the foreign language. He continued to listen to conversation as he worked.

"Had a good summer, Luna?" Ginny asked.

"Yes," said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. "Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. _You're_ Harry Potter," she added.

"I know I am," said Harry.

The pudgy boy chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes upon him instead.

"And I don't know who you are."

"I'm nobody," he said hurriedly.

"No you're not," said Ginny sharply. "Neville Longbottom — Luna Lovegood. Luna's in my year, but in Ravenclaw."

 _"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure,"_ said Luna in a singsong voice. Iceland shuddered, feeling distinctly reminded of Denmark, or maybe Seychelles. The pale girl's eyes turned to face the Icelander. "And you are?"

"Hm?" Iceland said, looking up. "Oh, I'm Emil Steilsson, a transfer student from Iceland. Nobody important." Harry suddenly looked as if he remembered something.

"That reminds me, Emil. When I was at my court case a couple weeks ago, the Minister referred to Mathias as 'Denmark'. Do you know why that is? It's been bugging me for a while." The rhythmic scratching of Iceland's pen suddenly froze.

"Uh..." he said, looking up pretending to think. _'Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, I knew that English minister guy was fishy, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.'_ Iceland thought for a moment. "Mathias is pretty high up in the Danish government, both muggle and magical, and has quite a bit of authority and power as well, so sometimes people refer to him as being the personification of all of Denmark's power, so maybe that's where it came. I'm not terribly sure, but I can ask him if you want."

A little white lie never hurt anybody.

"No it's fine, it's not really important anyways," said Harry waving it off. Iceland nodded and ducked his head back to work on the papers Denmark had forwarded to him, missing the way Harry's narrowed at the top of his head.

The train rattled onward, speeding them out into open country. It was an odd, unsettled sort of day; one moment the carriage was full of sunlight and the next they were passing beneath ominously gray clouds. It kind of reminded Iceland of the weather at Denmark's place.

"Guess what I got for my birthday?" said Neville.

"Another Remembrall?" said Harry. Iceland briefly wondered what a Remembrall was, before deciding to look it up later.

"No," said Neville, "I could do with one, though, I lost the old one ages ago... No, look at this..."

He dug the hand that was not keeping a firm grip on his toad into his schoolbag and after a little bit of rummaging pulled out what appeared to be a small gray cactus in a pot, except that it was covered with what looked like boils rather than spines.

 _"Mimbulus mimbletonia_ _,"_ he said proudly.

Iceland stared at the thing. It was pulsating slightly, giving it the rather sinister look of some diseased internal organ. Maybe the lung of a dying smoker, perhaps.

"It's really, really rare," said Neville, beaming. "I don't know if there's one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can't wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My great-uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I'm going to see if I can breed from it."

"Does it — er — do anything?" Harry asked.

"Loads of stuff!" said Neville proudly. "It's got an amazing defensive mechanism — hold Trevor for me..."

He dumped the toad into Harry's lap and took a quill from his schoolbag. Luna Lovegood's popping eyes appeared over the top of her upside down magazine again, watching what Neville was doing. Neville held the _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ up to his eyes, his tongue between his teeth, chose his spot, and gave the plant a sharp prod with the tip of his quill.

Liquid squirted from every boil on the plant, thick, stinking, dark green jets of it; they hit the ceiling, the windows, and spattered Luna Lovegood's magazine. Ginny, who had flung her arms up in front of her face just in time, merely looked as if she was wearing a slimy green hat, but Harry, whose hands had been busy preventing the escape of Trevor, received a face full. Iceland, who had been bent over his paperwork, had the entire right side of his body was covered in the slime. Mr. Puffin, who was resting comfortably in his lap (protected by Iceland's body from the green substance), woke with an angry cry as the smell drifted towards him. It smelled like rancid manure. Iceland gave a horrified shout that mingled with Mr. Puffin's as he saw all papers he had been signing covered in wet, sticky green slime.

Neville, whose face and torso were also drenched, shook his head to get the worst out of his eyes.

"S-sorry," he gasped. "I haven't tried that before... Didn't realize it would be quite so... Don't worry, though, Stinksap's not poisonous," he added nervously, as Harry spat a mouthful onto the floor.

At that precise moment the door of their compartment slid open.

"Oh, hello, Harry," said a nervous voice. "Um... bad time?"

Iceland wiped the lenses of his glasses on his pant leg, remembering why he preferred contacts over spectacles. A very pretty girl with long, shiny black hair was standing in the doorway smiling at Harry.

"Oh... hi," said Harry blankly.

"Um..." said the girl. "Well... just thought I'd say hello... 'bye then."

She closed the door again, rather pink in the face, and departed. Harry slumped back in his seat and groaned. Iceland raised his an eyebrow at Harry's blurry figure before going back to trying to remove the last smudges of slime from his glasses.

"Is that your girlfriend, Harry? I was expecting you to date Ginny," he commented blankly. Ginny' s face quickly lit up to a similar color as her hair and Harry turned pink.

"What? No, no, I'm dating either of them..." he said, mumbling the rest of his sentence. Iceland 'tch'ed.

"Never mind," said Ginny bracingly. "Look, we can get rid of all this easily." She pulled out her wand. _"Scourgify!"_

The Stinksap vanished. Iceland blinked before shrugging and sliding the glasses on. He then turned to his next task, attempting to calm the screaming Mr. Puffin.

"Sorry," said Neville again, in a small voice.

Ron and Hermione did not turn up for nearly an hour, by which time the food trolley had already gone by and Iceland had given up on paperwork, stowing away in his trunk once more and trading it for more of his stash of black licorice, which sufficiently calmed Mr. Puffin. Harry, Ginny and Neville had finished their Pumpkin Pasties and were busy swapping Chocolate Frog cards when the compartment door slid open and they walked in, accompanied by Crookshanks and a shrilly hooting Pigwidgeon in his cage.

"I'm starving," said Ron, stowing Pigwidgeon next to Hedwig, grabbing a Chocolate Frog from Harry and Throwing himself into the seat next to him, ignoring the annoyed grumbles from Iceland as his behind crumpled the pages of his book. He ripped open the wrapper, but off the frog's head and leaned back with his eyes closed as though he had had a very exhausting morning.

As they proceeded to talk about prefects, Iceland drew his knees to his chest and kept reading his book and ignored the humans in the compartment, Mr. Puffin's head sticking out from between his knees and torso, shuffling closer to the warmth of Iceland's body. He was successful in ignoring everybody until the compartment door slammed open, causing the Icelander to look up with an irritated growl.

"What?" Harry asked aggressively to the three males in black and green robes who stood in the doorway of the compartment. Iceland figured they were Slytherins.

"Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you a detention," drawled the smallest one, obviously the leader of the trio, whose sleek blond hair and pointed chin gave off a distinct impression of evil. "You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments."

"Yeah," said Harry, "but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone."

Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville laughed. Malfoy's lip curled.

"Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?" he asked. Iceland frowned and leaned down to whisper to Mr. Puffin.

"Shut up, Malfoy," said Hermione sharply.

"I seem to have touched a nerve," said Malfoy, smirking. "Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because I'll be _dogging_ your footsteps in case you step out of line." The smirk was suddenly wiped off the blond's face as Mr. Puffin launched himself from Iceland's lap, ramming hard enough into Malfoy's forehead to send him stumbling back into the arms of his cronies. Iceland was briefly reminded of France's bird, Pierre. He darted forward, picking up Mr. Puffin, pretending to act almost like an upset parent.

"Gott starf!" he said, waving a finger in the Puffin's face. Everybody else was too shocked by the sudden turn of events to comment and or laugh. Iceland turned to Malfoy. "I am so sorry about him, he does stuff like this sometimes for attention. Are you alright...?" The teen narrowed his eyes at Iceland.

"Of course I'm alright. Come on, Crabbe, Goyle, let's leave these looser's to it," he said irritatedly, trying to ignore the angry red welt on his forehead as he stalked off. Iceland sighed as he closed the door to the compartment, before turning around to face the surprised faces of his fellow passengers.

"And that, children, is how you passive-aggressively attack someone," a few seconds after he finished his sentence, everyone burst out laughing. Even Luna giggled a bit. Iceland just gave a satisfied smile as he returned to his book, muttering a few sentences of praise to Mr. Puffin under his breath, causing the bird to preen.

"We'd better change," said Hermione after another hour of silence and the occasional small talk, and all of them opened their trunks with difficulty and pulled on their school robes. She and Ron pinned their prefect badges carefully to their chests. Iceland saw Ron checking how it looked in the black window. Iceland simply took off the lopapeysa he had been wearing and shrugged on the black robe.

At last the train began to slow down and they heard racket up and down it as everybody scrambled to get their luggage and pets assembled, ready for departure. Ron and Hermione were supposed to supervise all this; they disappeared from the carriage again leaving Harry and the others to look after Crookshanks and Pigwidgeon. Iceland just decided to stay uninvolved.

"I'll carry that owl, if you like," said Luna to Harry, reaching out for Pigwidgeon ad Neville stowed Trevor carefully in an inside pocket.

"Oh — er — thanks," said Harry, handing her the cage and hoisting Hedwig's more securely into his arms.

They shuffled out of the compartment feeling the first sting of the night air on their faces as they joined the crowd in the corridor. Slowly they moved towards the doors. Iceland could smell the pine trees that lined the path down to the lake. He stepped down onto the platform and looked around. Iceland was separated from the rest of his group as he moved off along the platform and out through the station. He allowed himself to be shunted forward onto the dark rain-washed road outside Hogsmede Station.

Iceland looked closer at the hundred or so stagecoaches. There were creatures standing between the carriage shafts; if he had had to give them a name, he supposed he would have called them horses, though there was something reptilian about them, too. They were completely fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeleton, of which every bone was visible. Their heads were dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and staring. Wings sprouted from each wither — vast, black leathery wings that looked as though they ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet in the gathering gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister.

"Huh," Iceland said blandly, vaguely recognizing the creatures, as he had seen them at Norway's place. It was after a few minutes of staring at the creatures fascinated, that he noticed that Ron, Harry, and Hermione were standing next to him deep in conversation.

"Can't... can't you see them?"

"See _what?_ "

"Can't you see what's pulling the carriages?"

Ron looked seriously alarmed.

"Are you feeling all right, Harry?"

"I can see them, too," Iceland said quietly, interrupting their conversation and diverting all attention onto himself. "I don't remember what they're called, but if I'm recalling correctly, they can only be sen by someone who has seen someone die or something along those lines." Iceland took one look at the shocked faces of his soon-to-be fellow students and rolled his eyes. "Come on. Let's get a carriage, if we hurry, we might be able to get one to ourselves."

* * *

Iceland didn't realize they had arrived at Hogwarts (he was fighting with Mr. Puffin over the last licorice wheel) until he heard Ron's voice ring out.

"Are you two coming or what?" said Ron from beside them. Iceland snapped back into reality, and Harry had answered just before he realized where he must be.

"Oh... yeah," said Harry quickly, and the three joined the crowd hurrying up the stone steps into the castle.

The entrance hall was ablaze with torches and echoing with footsteps as the students crossed the flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast (Hermione had been all too happy to discuss the school with him).

The four long House tables in the Great Hall were filling up under the starless black ceiling, which was just like the sky they could glimpse through the high windows. Candles floated in midair all along the table, illuminating the silvery ghosts who were dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students talking eagerly to one another, exchanging summer news, shouting greetings at friends from other Houses, eyeing one another's new haircuts and robes.

Luna drifted away from them at the Ravenclaw table. The moment they reached Gryffindor's, Ginny was hailed by some fellow fourth years and left to sit with them; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville found seats together about halfway. Iceland, not knowing what to do, told them to save him a seat as he rushed through the bustling crowd towards the head table (he used skills he had developed from navigating fights at World Conferences to sit with Hong Kong and Seychelles to avoid being ran over by anybody).

"Professor Dumbledore, sir," Iceland said, coming to a stop next to the Headmaster, who was standing behind a podium, watching the students run around with a smile on his face.

"Ah, Iceland, my boy, how wonderful of you to join me," the old man said cheerily.

"If anyone's the boy here, it's you," Iceland retorted easily, his eyes straying away from his conversation partner to watch the children and teens wave and shout to friends. Dumbledore laughed heartily.

"Right you are, right you are," he said happily, blue eyes twinkling behind half moon spectacles. "If you would mind standing with me until the sorting is finished...?" Iceland nodded.

"Of course. It's the least I could do after you agreed to take a foreign immortal government official into your school," he responded, muttering the last part dryly.

"You are not the only government official staying at my school this year," Dumbledore commented, earning a confused look from the Icelander standing next to him. "You see that women in all pink over to the left?" Iceland subtly glanced over his left hand shoulder, pretending to look at the ceiling while stealing a peek at the staff table. He nodded. "That is Professor Umbridge, a high-up official in the Ministry of Magic. Since I was unable to find a suitable Defense against the Dark Arts teacher before the start of term, the Ministry placed her here, no doubt to spy on the school," the Headmaster told him, somehow managing to continue cheery throughout the unloading of information, although there was an undertone of morbidness. Iceland could understand, remembering all the scandals of the past where nations had begun spying on other countries citizens without checking with the personification in question first (*cough* America and Russia [although they've started to patch things up] *cough*).

"I see," Iceland said, returning his gaze to the four long tables, the ruckus having started to settle (people hard started gesturing to him while whispering to friends), waving briefly to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville at the Gryffindor. Dumbledore led Iceland off to the side, mentioning that the first years would be entering to be sorted soon. He bit into his last licorice wheel after having fought Mr. Puffin for it earlier, crying out when said bird swopped off of his head to grab it, flying into the rafters to laugh at the steaming Iceland. "Stupid bird," Iceland muttered half-heartedly, not really having the will to hate the bird whom he had known longer than Denmark or even _Norway_. He had known the bird for at least 200 more years than his Norwegian sibling.

Iceland was snapped from his musings as the doors from the entrance hall opened, Mr. Puffin flying back down to nest on Iceland's head. He lifted a hand to trail a finger along the bird's feathers. A long line of scared-looking first years entered, led by Professor McGonagall, who was carrying a stool on which sat an ancient wizard's hat, heavily patched and darned with a wide rip near the fray brim.

The buzz of talk in the Great hall faded away. The first years lined up in front of the staff table facing the rest of the students, and Professor McGonagall placed the stool carefully in front of them, then stood back.

The first years' faces glowed palely in the candlelight. A small boy right in the middle of the row looked as though he was trembling. Iceland caught his eye and winked reassuringly, smiling as the boy seemed to instantly relax.

The whole school waited with bated breath. Then a rip near the hat's brim opened wide like a mouth and the Sorting Hat burst into song. Iceland didn't really pay attention to the music flowing from the article of clothing, instead trying to wrap his head around the fact that a raggedy old hat was _singing_.

Once the song was finished, the hate became motionless once more; applause broke out (Iceland was paying enough attention to join in with a small, polite clap), though it was punctured with muttering and whispers. All across the Great Hall students were exchanging remarks with their neighbors and Iceland, clapping along with everyone else, didn't exactly know what it was about, seeing as he hadn't paid much attention to the words.

With a last frowning look that swept the four House tables, Professor McGonagall lowered her eyes to her long piece of parchment and called out,

"Abercrombie, Euan."

The terrified-looking boy Iceland had noticed earlier stumbled forward and put the hat on his head; it was only prevented from falling right down to his shoulders by his very prominent ears. The hat considered for a moment, then the rip near the brim opened again and shouted, _"GRYFFINDOR!"_

Iceland clapped, nodding to the boy when he looked back at the nation as he headed down to join his new Housemates.

Slowly the long lint of first years thinned; in the pauses between the names and the Sorting Hat's decisions, Iceland could hear collections of stomachs rumbling loudly. Finally, "Zellar, Rose" was sorted into Hufflepuff, and Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and stool and marched them away as Dumbledore took the podium, Iceland following a few behind.

"To our newcomers," said Dumbledore in a ringing voice, his arms stretched wide and a beaming smile on his lips, "welcome! To our old hands — welcome back!" There was brief pause, in which Iceland began to sweat nervously. "This year we have been gifted with an exchange student joining our ranks. All the way from Reykjavík, Iceland, please welcome fifth year Emil Steilsson!" There was an all around clapping, accompanied by similar muttering and whispers to when the Sorting Hat had finished it's song. Hermione had explained to Iceland on his fifth day at Grimmauld Place that Hogwarts didn't often get transfers, the last one had been over a century prior. Iceland could feel his face burn as the attention he was receiving, only used having people pay attention to him at large gatherings whenever he, Norway, and Denmark had to pry Finland off of Sweden during Hockey season. "For the duration of his stay, he shall be housing with the fifth years in Gryffindor House!" Dumbledor gave Iceland a wink out of the corner of his as the boy hurried off of the elevated platform to join Harry, Ron, Neville, and Hermione, who had indeed saved him a seat between the pudgy boy and herself.

"Anyhow! There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!"

There was an appreciative laugh and an outbreak of applause as Dumbledore sat down neatly and threw his long beard over his shoulder so as to keep it out of the way of his plate — for food had appeared out of nowhere, so that the five long tables were groaning under joints and pies and dishes of vegetables, bread, sauces, and flagons of pumpkin juice.

Iceland blinked. Then he blinked again. Then one more time. The teen shrugged, deciding to worry about it later.

"Excellent," said Ron, with a kind of groan of longing, and he seized the nearest plate of chops and began piling them onto his plate watched wistfully by a nearby ghost, who Iceland assumed was Nearly Headless Nick. He decided he had no interest in listening to their conversation, and eventually started to quietly bicker with Mr. Puffin in Icelandic about the merits of licorice (it was a disguise for arguing about who should've gotten the last piece a half hour prior). Iceland eventually stuffed a raw fish in the birds face to shut the Puffin up.

When all the students had finished eating and the noise level in the hall was starting to creep up again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more. Talking ceased immediately as all turned to face the headmaster. Iceland was feeling pleasantly drowsy by that point, with Mr. Puffin already sound asleep upon his head.

"Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices," said Dumbledore. Iceland sighed and began filtering the information. In other words, registering it in the back of his mind to think about later.

 _"Hem, hem._ _"_ Iceland blinked. _That_ definitely didn't sound like Professor Dumbledore. He turned to the staff table to see the Umbridge lady preparing to make a speech. "Thank you, Headmaster," Professor Umbridge simpered, "for those kind words of welcome."

Her voice was high-pitched, breathy, and little-girlish and Iceland felt a powerful rush of dislike that he could not explain to himself; all he knew was that he loathed everything about her, from her stupid voice to her fluffy pink cardigan. Iceland glanced over to Hermione, to see the girl was paying rapt attention to every word that poured out of that foul woman's mouth. While he normally didn't do it, Iceland decided to ignore the speech and resolved himself to ask Hermione about tomorrow. Instead, he gently picked up the Puffin seated upon his head, cradling the bird close to his body, turning his mind to more important matters.

That cut... Iceland thought back to that morning, when he had first realized that he wasn't healing as fast as he was supposed to. He couldn't possibly think of a reason why it would happen. It could be that there was an imminent volcanic eruption, but Iceland had had plenty of those before, and this had never happened before. Maybe he had been away from his nation too long...? No, that couldn't be it, all the countries that had fought back in World War II wouldn't have possibly survived if that had been the case. Iceland continued mulling over the issue, turning the problem over in his mind, looking it at every possible angle to try and find a reasonable answer.

Iceland's attention was once again brought crashing back down to reality that day by a great clattering and banging all around him; Dumbledore had obviously just dismissed the school, because everyone was standing up ready to leave the hall. Hermione jumped up, looking flustered.

"Ron, we're supposed to show the first years where to go!"

"Oh yeah," said Ron, who had obviously forgotten. "Hey — hey you lot! Midgets!" Iceland's eye twitched, feeling the slightest bit offended.

 _"Ron!"_

"Well, they are, they're titchy..."

"I know, but you can't call them midgets... First years!" Hermione called commandingly along the table. "This way, please!"

A group of new students walked shyly up the gap between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, all of them trying hard not to lead the group.

"See you later," Harry said dully to Ron and Hermione and made his way out of the Great Hall, Iceland running to catch up, not feeling like being grouped in with first years. They had been walking for about five minutes before they came to a halt at the end of a corridor, in front of a portrait of a fat lady in pink.

"Er..." Harry said glumly, staring up at the Fat Lady, who smoothed the folds of her pink satin dress and sternly back at the two. Iceland had no idea what was going on.

"No password, no entrance," she said loftily. _'Ah,'_ Iceland thought.

"Harry, Emil, I know it!" someone panted from behind them, and they turned to see Neville jogging towards them. "Guess what it is? I'm actually going to be able to remember it for once —" He waved the stunted little cactus he had shown them on the train. " _Mimbulus mimbletonia!"_

"Correct," said the Fat Lady, and her portrait swung open toward them like a door, revealing a circular hole in the wall behind, through which Iceland, Neville, and Harry then climbed.

The Gryffindor common room looked welcoming, a cozy circular tower room full of dilapidated squashy armchairs and rickety old tables. A fire was crackling merrily in the grate and a few people were warming their hands before going up to their dormitories; on the other side of the room Fred and George Weasley were pinning something up on the notice board. Iceland waved goodnight to them and followed Harry as he headed straight for the door to the boys' dormitories. Nevill followed along with Iceland.

Two other boys had reached the dormitories first and were in the process of covering the walls beside their beds with posters and photographs. They had been talking as Harry pushed open the door but stopped abruptly the moment they saw him. Iceland was fairly sure the two boys had most likely been talking about Harry, and quickly headed toward bed with his trunk on it to avoid any drama, Neville following suite.

Iceland laid Mr. Puffin down carefully onto a pillow, into which the bird snuggled into instantly. He smiled fondly before opening his trunk and pulling out his pajamas, heading into the bathroom to change, being extremely self-concious. He walked out two minutes later to a silent room, with what seemed like everybody refusing to look at each other. Iceland sighed. So it was going to be like that then?

Sliding off his glasses and placing them on the bedside table, he moved the pillow Mr. Puffin was resting upon down to the foot of the bed before crawling in underneath the covers, continuing to think about possible causes for himself not healing correctly. It couldn't be a natural disaster, nor was it the he had been in England for the past month (though he was now in Scotland), and it definitely couldn't be something like infection, since that didn't happen to nations easily from what he knew, and had done nothing that could warrant for even a _human_. Iceland frowned. Maybe it's because he had been in a magically rich environment for much longer than he was used to... Yes, that had to be it! It was the only possible explanation he could think of. He would write Hong Kong the next day to get a second opinion (he definitely wouldn't ask any of the other Nordics, they would most likely do anything to break down any magical wards the school had and the reinforced doors to drag him off to the nearest hospital). Iceland's train of though snapped as he heard Harry and one of the other boys insult each other underneath their breath.

This year was going to be _miserable_.

* * *

 **Gott starf - Good job (the idea is that he sounds like he's scolding Mr. Puffin when he's actually praising him)**

 **And that was chapter 8! I hope you enjoyed this, and after four months of the fic being up, Iceland has finally arrived at Hogwarts (I know it's what you were all waiting for). I hope this chapter lived up to expectations, and that everybody following this had as much fun reading it as I did writing it!**

 **Now, for a brief explanation of something: for some elements of the plot to work properly, I needed Iceland to be in Gryffindor, but let's face it, he's more of a Slytherin or Ravenclaw if you ask me. That is why I had the whole Dumbledore deciding what House Icey was gonna be in thing, because otherwise he would have ended up in a different house. Also, in the universe of this fanfiction, the explanation is that Denmark requested that Iceland be put into that house so that he could learn to be more sociable (but as you can see, it's failing already).**

 **On a separate note, I would like to make a shout out to ThorirPP, who actually took the time to leave reviews on this story, correcting all the Icelandic :3 Thank you so, so, so much for your help.**

 **Anyways, I would like to thank everybody for favoriting and following, and especially reviewing. Seriously, I check any notifications I get for this fic in class, and whenever I read reviews for the first time, I start to smile like an idiot and I think my friends are starting to worry about me.**

 **Until next time, Hasta la Pasta!**


	9. Chapter 9

Iceland had been up for about an hour by the time the other boys in the dorm started coming to consciousness the next morning, and was reading the book for History of Magic, much to everybody else's confusion.

"I'm trying to see if they ever truly focus on a nation besides England," he responded when asked. They were all thoroughly worried that they might have another Hermione on their hands.

The boy Harry had argued with the night before (Seamus, Iceland had learned from the mutterings of Harry) dressed at top speed, unlike the other boys, and left the dormitory before Iceland even had the chance to finish his page and say 'good morning.'

"Does he think he'll turn into a nutter if he stays in a room with me too long?" asked Harry loudly, as the hem of Seamus' robes whipped out of sight.

"Don't worry about it, Harry," Dean muttered, hoisting his school bag onto his shoulder. "He's just..." But apparently he was unable to say exactly what Seamus was, and after a slightly awkward pause followed him out of the room.

Neville and Ron both gave Harry it's-his-problem-not-yours looks, and Iceland just decided to stay uninvolved with the argument. Sensing the tension in the room, he sighed and snapped at the other boys to either get dressed or go to class hungry. Iceland snapped his book closed and stuffed it into his schoolbag, marching out to find the Great Hall on his own, Mr. Puffin flying fast to catch up with the irritated nation. He mentally congratulated himself on paying attention when he had followed Harry to the Gryffindor common room the night before, being able to find the Great Hall easily.

"I'd forgotten Wood had left," said Hermione vaguely (snapping Iceland out of his thoughts), sitting down beside Ron and pulling a plate of toast towards her. "I suppose that will make quite a difference to the team?"

"I s'pose," said Harry, taking the bench opposite, right next to Iceland. "He was a good Keeper..."

"Still, it won't hurt to have some new blood, will it?" said Ron.

With a _whoosh_ and a clatter, hundreds of owls came soaring in through the upper windows. They descended all over the Hall, bringing letters and packages to their owners and showering the breakfasters with droplets of water; it was clearly raining outside. Iceland was only faintly surprised when two letters were dropped in front of his plate, figuring one was from Denmark and the other Hong Kong. Hermione had to move her orange juice aside quickly to make way for a large barn owl bearing a sodden _Daily Prophet_ in its beak as Iceland looked at his letters.

 _Emil Steilsson_ with a neatly scribbled _Li Xiao Chun_ in the corner.

"What are you still getting that for?" said Harry irritably as Hermione placed a Knut in the leather pouch on the owl's leg and it took off again. "I'm not bothering... load of rubbish."

"It's best to know what the enemy are saying," said Hermione darkly. She was about to unfurl her newspaper when she noticed the second envelope in Iceland's hand, which the said country was looking at confusedly as it started to smoke. Her drift of attention made Harry and Ron notice as well.

 _Emil Steilsson_ with a hastily scratched _Tino and Berwald._

"Uh... Emil, you might want to open that," she said tentatively, as the red paper started to shake and spark violently. Iceland quickly took the advice of Hermione, not wanting to find out why an envelope was sparking and smoking like a dying flame.

 ** _"ISLANTI!"_** a strong voice rang out. Iceland flinched violently and dropped the letter, recognizing the voice. He was a dead man. All heads around the hall turned to se who had gotten the howler, and were surprised to see it was the stoic new kid. _**"YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE YOUNG MAN!"**_

 _"F'nn, please calm —"_

 _ **"I AM CALM, RUOTSI!"**  
_

Everybody in the Great Hall just watched as Iceland's already pale skin seemed to become several shades lighter.

 _"Ice, I am so sorry about this, but Finn made —"_

 ** _"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, TANSKA! I'LL DEAL WITH YOU LATER!"_**

"Was that Mathias?" Ron asked confusedly, getting a nod from an almost transparent Iceland.

 ** _"FIRST YOU LIE TO ME AND RUOTSI, TELLING US THAT YOU WERE SIMPLY TAKING A FEW MONTHS OFF TO GO ON HOLIDAY WITH LI XIAO, BUT THEN WE GET THAT LETTER FROM TANSKA ASKING TO CUT OFF ANY TRADE DEALS WE HAVE WITH ARTHUR'S STUPID MAGIC GOVERNMENT,_** _although I can agree with you, he is pretty annoying,_ _ **BUT YOU AND HIM SEEMED TO HAVE THOUGHT IT FINE TO FORGO MENTIONING THAT YOU WERE ACTUALLY GOING TO A TAIKA KOULU IN SKOTLANNIN! GIVE ME ONE REASON WHY I SHOULDN'T JUST GO AND TELL YOUR OLDER BROTHER WHERE YOU ARE RIGHT NOW, I'M SURE NORJA WOULD LOVE TO KNOW YOU DECIDED TO GET YOUR KOULUNKÄYNTI IN ENGLAND RATHER THAN AT A NORJAN KIELI KOULU! DON'T YOU THINK THAT MAYBE AT LEAST PIETARI DESERVED TO KNOW?! HUH?! AND WHAT ABOU —"**_ Finland's voice was muffled, and seemed to be screaming as everybody could hear him being dragged away.

 _"Sorry about that, he kind of threatened to go all Vinterkrigen on my røv, and you know how Finn can get. Sverige and Peter say hi. I'll make sure he doesn't tell Norge about it, don't worry."_ There were then some heavy approaching footsteps and a distant _'HI, UNCLE EMIL!'_ from Sealand.

 _"M'wife just had a hard time g'tting the permission to c't off the agreements on short notice. F'nn didn't like that you didn't trust us enough t' tell us where y' were going."_

 _"Hi Emmy! I hope you're having a fun time at school! Mrs. Joensen showed us how to kill a sheep yesterday, it was very interesting. She even gave all of us a bag of sheep blood so that we could make blood sausages at home!"_ That was definitely Faroe Islands, she was the only one he knew of where kids were taught to kill sheep. There wasn't a problem with it, there just wasn't much use for the class elsewhere. Everybody else looked horrified at the prospect of learning how to kill a sheep in school

 _"Move it."_

 _"Hey!"_

 _"Emil, you need to tell your mother that your idiot brother is not a criminal on trial and that I am not a piece of evidence to be casually kidnapped and dragged to Denmark against my will. I'm fairly sure Arthur's going to complain about this, since I'm missing that stupid tea party he has everyday. I don't particularly care to hear his_ s _hàngdì zǔzhòu. I don't mind tea, but I hold my stance that black tea is not tea. Anyways, Michelle says hi."_ Without a doubt Hong Kong.

 _"Shove over, you teenaged rice-ball."_ Definitely Greenland.

 _"I don't like rice."_

 _"Emil, please tell me that you'll visit sometime soon, Fríðunn is getting antsy. And also, that taqajak angut tried to hug me again today, and I think he cracked my ribs."_ The 'stupid man' he was complaining about was almost 100% guaranteed to be Denmark. _"If I have to put up with that idiot for one more day, I'm going to go stay with Matthew until you come back, and I'm taking Fríðunn with me."_

 _"Autdlâritâ, I don't think you're legally allowed to do that."_

 _"Shut it, Rice-Face."_

 _"...I still don't like rice."_

 _"Do I look like I give a sh—"_ A bang and a crash could be heard in the background, then a angry scream that seemed ripped from Finland's throat.

 _ **"AND ONE MORE THING! YOU PULL SOMETHING LIKE THIS AGAIN, I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN MYSELF AND I WILL GO ALL WINTER WAR ON YOU AND SNIPE YOUR ASS! YMMÄRRÄTKÖ?"**_ There was another thump of somebody tackling Finland to the ground, most likely a combined effort between Sweden and Denmark, maybe Greenland too. Faroe probably had wandered off by that point, and Hong Kong was the type of person to not care and help himself to the food in Denmark's house. **_"I WASN'T DONE TALKING TO HIM, YOU —"_** and his voice became muffled, probably from either Sweden or Denmark putting their hand over his mouth, and then there was a pained hiss. Finland had always been the type to either bite or lick your hand if you covered his mouth.

 _"Listen, we have to go, Finn's going to murder me and then will probably continue yelling at you. Make sure to write back and mention when your first Hogsmede weekend is, it'll get worse if you don't. Bye, Ice,"_ and with that the letter ripped itself to pieces. Iceland was almost definitely transparent by that point, and had his arms wrapped around himself as he trembled violently. The hall was dead silent. People slowly started to whisper to each other, trying to figure out what any of the letter meant, the slightly broken English giving the whole rant a somewhat cryptic meaning. After five minutes the Hall started to return to it's normal volume. Iceland slowly stopped hugging himself, instead putting his head in his hands while muttering under his breath, which was more short and uneven gasps and pants rather than actual breathing (Iceland unfortunately had some lung problems due to his extreme volcanic nature). Hermione gave him a worried look before unfurling the newspaper that had become slightly crumpled from her tight grip on it and disappeared behind the news. Out of the corner of his eye, Iceland could see the mirth in Dumbledore's eyes, and suspicions in Professor Umbridge's black orbs.

"Mate, who _was_ that? She must be a beast, she managed to shout louder than my Mum, and even her husband sounded afraid of her," Ron asked, causing Iceland's eye to twitch. It was always very clear to find people who know Finland and Sweden and those who didn't, judging on who called Finland a female. Iceland thought for a few seconds, trying to decided how to answer the question.

" _He_ ," Iceland started, making sure to stress the pronoun, making Ron's eyes widen when he realized the voice was actually from a male, "is Tino Väinämöinen, and his husband, as you so accurately put it," he surprisingly was not being sarcastic when he said that, "is Berwald Oxenstierna. Here," he said, pulling his school bag up onto his lap and rummaging around in it. It took a minute, but he managed to pop back up with his wallet in hand (sure, it couldn't fit any of the coins that English wizards liked to use, but he carried it around out of habit and it wouldn't do to break it). Opening it up, he showed the two teens on the other side of the table the photo.

"Look," Iceland said, pointing to the picture. It was a picture of one of the Nordic's very rare family outings. It had been taken the winter previous, as they had all decided to go visit Finland for the holidays. Denmark had his arms around Iceland and Norway's necks, pulling them in close for the picture. It was very obvious that they had been trying to walk away, and you could see the 'oh fuck what' look on Iceland's face (Mr. Puffin was flying away just above his head) and the slight surprise on Norway's clear as day. Denmark just wore that ridiculously big smile of his. Greenland had a large grin that stretched across his face and was making peace signs at the camera, his shirt bearing the Erfalasorput, or the Greenlandic flag, and you could see the snow in his hair easily, due to the stark contrast between the black and the white. Right next to him was Faroe Islands, whom had a shyer smile on her face, but seemed to have sparkle of winter cheer in her eyes nonetheless. With her violet eyes and light hair, you would almost say she was more Iceland's sibling than Denmark's. Her fair and pale skin clashed greatly with Greenland's olive, but you could still see a sibling resemblance in both. They were physically ten and eight, respectively. Finland had a happy but slightly tired smile (it was a couple days before Christmas, and the Finn had been running around trying to do some last minute preparations), and was leaning Sweden, who had an arm around the smaller man's waist. On the taller nation's shoulder was a beaming Sealand, who seemed to be waving enthusiastically at the camera. You had to have known Sweden for years to see it, but the man had a small and satisfied smile on his face. To anybody else, it would have looked like a disastrous and failed family photo, but to Iceland, it showed how his family somehow still managed to stick together after many, many years. "This is Tino, he's Finnish," he said, pointing to the Finnish man in a dark red sweatshirt, the white beret he normally wore was missing. In his arms was a yipping Hanatamago. "And this is Berwald. Swedish." The man in question was in a dark blue trench coat like always, but his hat too was missing. The hand that was not around his 'wife', was clasped around Sealand's ankle, to prevent the boy form slipping off of his shoulders.

"You sure you didn't mix them up or something? Because I'm skeptical about someone that small can yell that loud," Harry said, looking at Iceland confusedly.

"No, trust me. Tino may seem small, but most everybody we know is scared of him. You have to really, and I mean _really_ tick him off to get him angry enough to yell at you," Iceland explained, going to tuck the wallet back into his bag.

"Who were the other four?" he paused to look back up at Ron, who had asked the question.

"What?"

"The other four people in the photo. I could recognize Mathias and yourself, and we now know Tino and Berwald, but who were the other four?"

"Oh, well, uhh..." Iceland said, stumbling as he pulled the wallet back out. He definitely wasn't a doting parent (keep telling yourself that, Iceland, maybe one day you'll believe it), but he wasn't going to pass up a chance to show off Greenland and Faroe, the two siblings he had raised almost singlehandedly. "This one," he said, pointing to Greenland, "is Autdlâritâ Køhler," Harry and Ron seemed completely confused by the name. As the two looked closer at the tan boy, they started to notice smaller details about him, like how his dark hair looked as if he had just rolled out of bed, and only wore a light coat (similar to Finland) despite the heavy snow and icicles they could see hanging around the town square where they had taken the photo. "He's Mathias' younger adopted sibling, he's from Greenland."

"And this," Iceland said, pointing to Faroe Islands, "is Fríðunn Køhler." Faroe had her platinum blond hair in two braids the hung low over her shoulders and swung at her waist, and a thick scarf that only let her eyes peek over the woolen fabric. She also wore a long sleeved folk dress, the intricate patterns and small Faroese Mountain Hare cuddled in her arms only adding to pile of adorableness that was the Faroe Islands.

"Peter Kirkland," the micronation in question wasn't in his usual sailor outfit, instead he was dressed in a heavy black winter jacket and blue woolen hat, with his red mittens looking like they were going to fall off at the speed he was waving his arms. "He's actually the younger brother of a colleague who works with my siblings, but Arthur is very busy, so Peter spends most of his time at Berwald and Tino's house. They've practically adopted him."

"And this one is my older brother, Lukas Bondevik." The Norwegian was dressed in his usual blue sailor outfit. The hat was in midair, as it went flying off of his head when Denmark pulled him and Iceland back in for the photo, just before the photographer snapped the picture. His Nordic cross hair clip was shimmering, seeing as he polished it regularly. "He's from Norway." Iceland gave them a few more seconds to stare at the photo. "Anymore questions?" There was a pause.

"No."

"Good."

Hermione didn't reappear from behind her newspaper until after the three boys had finished eating. "Nothing," she said simply, rolling up the newspaper and laying it down by her plate. "Nothing about you or Dumbledore or anything."

Professor McGonagall was now moving along the table handing out schedules.

"Look at today!" groaned Ron. "History of Magic, double Potions, Divination, and double Defense Against the Dark Arts... Binns, Snape, Trelawney, and that Umbridge woman all in one day! I wish Fred and George'd hurry up and get those Skiving Snackboxes sorted..."

"Do mine ears deceive me?" said Fred, arriving with George and squeezing onto the bench beside Harry, pushing Iceland over. "Hogwarts prefects surely don't wish to skive off lessons?"

"Look what we've got today," said Ron grumpily, shoving his schedule under Fred's nose. "That's the worst Monday I've ever seen."

"Fair point, little bro," said Fred, scanning the column. "You can have a bit of Noseblood Nougat cheap if you like."

"Why's it cheap?" said Ron suspiciously.

"Because you'll keep bleeding till you shrivel up, we haven't got an antidote yet," said George, helping himself to a kipper.

"Cheers," said Ron moodily, pocketing his schedule, "but I think I'll take the lessons." Iceland would as well (sure, he couldn't actually _die_ , but severe blood loss was not a fun experience, he should know).

"And speaking of your Skiving Snackboxes," said Hermione, eyeing Fred and George beadily, "you can't advertise for testers on the Gryffindor notice board."

"Says who?" said George, looking astonished.

"Says me," said Hermione. "And Ron."

"Leave me out of it," said Ron hastily.

Hermione glared at him. Fred and George sniggered.

"You'll be singing a different tune soon enough, Hermione," said Fred, thickly buttering a crumpet. "You're starting your fifth year, you'll be begging us for a Snackbox before long."

"And why would starting fifth year mean I want a Skiving Snackbox?" asked Hermione.

"Fifth year's O.W.L. year," said George.

"So?"

"So you've got your exams coming up, haven't you? They'll be keeping your noses so hard to the grindstone they'll be rubbed raw," said Fred with satisfaction.

"Half our year had minor breakdowns coming up to O.W.L.s," said George happily, and Iceland couldn't imagine why. "Tears and tantrums... Patricia Stimpson kept coming over faint..."

"Kenneth Towler came out in boils, d'you remember?" said Fred reminiscently.

"That's 'cause you put Bulbadox Powder in his pajamas," said George.

"Oh yeah," said Fred, grinning. "I'd forgotten... Hard to keep track sometimes, isn't it?"

"Anyway, it's a nightmare of a year, the fifth," said George. "If you care about the exam results, anyway. Fred and I managed to keep our spirits up somehow."

"Yeah... you got, what was it, three O.W.L.s each?" said Ron.

"Yep," said Fred unconcernedly. "But we feel our futures lie outside the world of academic achievement."

"We seriously debated whether we were going to bother coming back for our seventh year," said George brightly, "now that we've got —"

He broke off at a warning look from Harry. Iceland wondered what was happening there, but ignored it.

"— now that we've got our O.W.L.s," George said hastily. "I mean, so we really need N.E.W.T.s? But we didn't think Mum could take us leaving school earl, not on top of Percy turning out to be the world's biggest prat."

"We're not going to waste our last year here, though," said Fred, looking affectionately around at the Great Hall. "We're going to use it to do a bit of market research, find out exactly what the average Hogwarts student requires from his joke shop, carefully evaluate the results of our research, and then produce the products to fit the demand."

"But where are you going to get the gold to start a joke shop?" asked Hermione skeptically. "You're going to need all the ingredients and materials — and premises too, I suppose..."

Harry did not look at the twins. His face was a bright red; he dropped his fork and dived down to retrieve it. Iceland was fairly sure he knew where those funds where coming from. "Ask us no questions and we'll tell you no lies, Hermione. C'mon, George, if we get there early we might be able to sell a few Extendable Ears before Herbology."

Harry emerged from under the table in time to see Fred and George walking away, each carrying a stack of toast. Iceland jumped up from his spot and almost dropped his school bag and narrowly avoided tripping over the bench as he ran to catch up with them. "Fred! George!" They both stopped and looked back at him with a pieces of toast stuffed in their mouths.

"Need something, Emil?" George asked after swallowing his piece of toast.

"Yeah, actually, I do. Didn't I tell you that you could stop the uncontrollable bleeding with Romanian Zengweed?"

"Yeah, you did," Fred answered.

"But we couldn't find it anywhere on the market," George added.

"And the lowest price Mundungus offered to get it for us at was ridiculously high —"

"— so we decided to see if we could find a different way to stop the bleeding."

"Oh," Iceland said, blinking his violet orbs at them. "Is that it? I have a friend who could probably obtain it for free and have it here by tomorrow." Fred and George looked at Iceland disbelievingly. "He lives with a British man, who gets regular imports of various plants from a Romanian friend of his, he most likely would have Romanian Zengweed. You just had to ask."

"Oh, Emmy, what would we do without you!" Fred cried dramatically, dropping into Iceland's arms, causing him to stumble back (disadvantages of not having an army 801).

"Oh, yes, our lord and savior, Emil!" George joined in, draping himself over Iceland's shoulders.

"Yes, if here is anything else I can do for you, please tell me. If you don't get off soon I'm going to collapse," he said with a strained smile as his legs started to tremble.

"That reminds us," Fred said, getting off of Iceland along with George, "can you come up with some sort of way to find the other common rooms and their passwords? We've tried for years, but we've never been able to find them."

"Done," Iceland said easily, lifting Mr. Puffin off of his head to hold in front of his face. "Vissir þú heyrir allt?"

"Skildu það til mín, pönk!" the bird said proudly, flapping off to follow a group of sixth year Ravenclaws.

"Okay, that's handled, anything else?" Iceland asked the astonished pair of twins.

"Uh..." Iceland raised an eyebrow. "No, we're cool."

"Catch you later, Emil!" George called out as he and Fred walked off with their toast. Iceland waved to them as they disappeared.

* * *

Iceland caught up to the Golden Trio in History of Magic, which Iceland quickly realized somehow had become the most boring subject when it really should be the most interesting. Professor Binns, their ghost teacher, had a wheezy droning voice that was almost guaranteed to cause severe drowsiness within ten minutes, Iceland noted as heads started dropping around the classroom. The island nation already knew quite a bit about the Giant Wars, seeing as Norway had found it very necessary to educate him thoroughly about magical history, as well as crash courses about any and all major worlds events (Norway also had an enjoyable time educating Iceland about every country's government, along with their trade and foreign policies). So no, he really had no reason to pay attention to the class.

"How would it be," Hermione asked Harry and Ron (who hadn't been paying attention either) coldly as they left the classroom for break (Binns drifting away through the blackboard), "if I refused to lend you my notes this year?"

"We'd fail our O.W.L.s" said Ron. "If you want that on your conscience, Hermione..."

"Well, you'd deserve it," she snapped. "You don't even try to listen to him, do you?"

"We do try," said Ron. "We just haven't got your brains or your memory or your concentration — you're just cleverer than we are — is it nice to rub in?"

"Oh, don't give me that rubbish," said Hermione, but she looked slightly mollified as she led the way out into the damp courtyard.

"I could probably tutor you, if you'd like," Iceland muttered quietly.

"What?" Harry asked, Ron and Hermione turning to look at him as well as they continued walking.

"I mean, you guys remember Autdlâritâ and Fríðunn, right?" Harry and Ron nodded while Hermione shook her head. "I'll show you a picture later, but they're Mathias' younger siblings. Anyways, I used to help Tino homeschool them for a while," and then eventually took over their education completely, "and I'm pretty good at history, so I figured it could help." There was a pause.

"Mate, we'd love the help, but I don't think me and Harry can fit that into our schedules with all the homework that's going to be assigned this year, we're not Hermione or anything." Iceland nodded in understanding.

"Then maybe I'll just do it for the first years or something, because if that's the teacher for all the years, they're probably going to need it," Iceland started to drift off, trying to remember what exactly the English stressed in their History, not paying attention when the same pretty girl from the train showed up and left a minute later, and Ron and Hermione bickering all the way down to the dungeons for Potions (the only reason he got down there in first place was because Harry had grabbed his arm and dragged him along). Iceland was slightly surprised when he returned to reality to find himself joined in the queue lining up outside Snape's classroom (he had heard about the classes from Harry and Ron's complaints). The ominous sound of the dungeon door creaking is what snapped any thoughts of lesson plans from his mind, though he still wanted to host some sort of study group for the first years in History of Magic.

"Settle down," said Snape coldly, shutting the door behind him. There was no real need to call for order; the moment the class had heard the door close, quiet had fallen and all fidgeting stopped. Snape's mere presence seemed to be enough to ensure a class's silence.

"Before we begin today's lesson," said Snape, sweeping over to his desk and staring around at them all, "I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an 'acceptable' in you O.W.L., or suffer my... displeasure."

His gaze lingered next upon Neville, who gulped.

"After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me," Snape went on. "I take only the very best into my N.E.W.T. Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying good-bye."

His eyes rested on Harry and his lip curled. Harry glared back, and anybody could feel the hate and loathing that flowed between the two of them.

"But we have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell," said Snape softly, "so whether you are intending to attempt N.E.W.T. or not, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high-passlevel I have come to expect from my O.W.L. students. And one more item must be addressed before we begin," he said, turning to face Iceland, his robes swishing about him, "we have a new student in our class, one who I hope is not as dunder-headed as the rest of the House he is staying with." With one last glare at Iceland, he continued.

"Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned: If you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing." _'Best 'say no' message I've ever heard. Don't do drugs kids,'_ Iceland thought. On his right, Hermione sat up a little straighter, her expression one of the utmost attentiveness. "The ingredients and method" — Snape flicked his wand — "are on the blackboard" — (they appeared there) — "you will find everything you need" — he flicked his wand again — "in the store cupboard" — (the door of said cupboard sprang open) — "you have an hour and a half... Start."

Snape could hardly have set them a more difficult, fiddly potion. The ingredients had to be added to the cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities; the mixture had to be stirred exactly the right number of times, firstly in clockwise, then in counterclockwise directions; the heat of the flames on which it was simmering had to be lowered to exactly the right level for a specific number of minutes before the final ingredient was added.

"A light silver vapor should now be rising from your potion," called Snape, with ten minutes left to go.

Iceland, who had managed to follow the instructions easily (came with centuries of being a servant to either a different nation or his own government), looked around at his fellow Housemates potions. Harry's was issuing copious amounts of dark grey steam; Ron's was spitting green sparks. Seamus was feverishly prodding the flames at the base of cauldron, as they had gone out. The surface of Hermione's potion, however, was a shimmering mist of silver vapor, contrary to many of the other potions in the room. Snape looked down his hooked nose at Iceland and Hermione's as he swept by, finding nothing to comment. At Harry's cauldron, however, Snape stopped, looking down at Harry with a horrible smirk on his face.

"Potter, what is this supposed to be?"

Iceland covered his face with his hands, having the distinct impression that this conversation was going to sound like a slow-motion car crash.

"The Draught of Peace," said Harry tensely.

"Tell me, Potter," said Snape softly, "can you read?"

Draco Malfoy laughed.

"Yes, I can," said Harry, his fingers clenched tightly around his wand.

"Read the third line of the instructions for me, Potter."

Iceland buried his head into his arms, attempting not to groan as Harry fell for the careful setup Snape seemed to have made.

"'Add powdered moonstone, stir three time counterclockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes, then add two drop of syrup of hellebore.'"

"Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?"

Harry mumbled something Iceland couldn't quite make out, and frankly, didn't want to.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No," said Harry, more loudly. "I forgot the hellebore..."

"I know you did, Potter, which means that this mess is utterly worthless. _Evanesco._ "

The contents of Harry's potion vanished; he was left standing foolishly beside an empty cauldron.

"Those of you who _have_ managed to read the instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up to my desk for testing," said Snape. "Homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Thursday."

Fast-forward to lunch, Iceland was sitting a few seats down from the Golden Trio, reading the other letter he had received that morning, eating a cherry pie (with a side of black licorice). It was from Hong Kong.

 _Greetings, Emil_ (Unusually formal)

 _You're a dick._ (there it is)

 _But let me tell you why you're a dick. I'm assuming you already got that howler from Finn? If you didn't, here's your warning (it got pretty bad pretty fast. It was like one train wreck after another). Anyways, Tino dragged me over as proof that you were going to Hogwarts (is he omniscient or something?), since Mathias denied it, trying to save his ass. Don't worry, your mom didn't hurt me, but I think I might have actually started to feel bad for the idiot Dane. I didn't know screams could go that high (remember that time at last years Halloween party when Natalya snuck up behind Ivan? That high)._

 _Anyways, Michelle dropped by today (I'm writing this the day after we met up at Diagon Ally, it should reach you by tomorrow), and I told her where you were (I can't lie to her, she can be as scary as Elizabeta sometimes). She said the visit was for gaining better relations for when I move back to China, but I personally think she's trying to avoid her boss (I don't blame her, he's kind of an asshole and very shady in my opinion). She wanted to write to you as well, but I said no. I'm going to make her get her own way of getting them to you, I'm not an airport.  
~Li Xiao_

Iceland smiled. It was nice to hear from the other teen, seeing as he, himself, and Seychelles were the only nations (or colonies) in the same age group, with the rest being several years younger or several years older.

After lunch had ended, and Iceland had completely amazed the Ancient Runes professor ("It's complicated," he said, when asked how he was already so knowledgable in the subject), he found himself seated in the back of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, trying not to gag at the absurdly strong smell of chemical cleaner that drifted through the room. Professor Umbridge was already seated at the teacher's desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow on top of her head. Iceland struggled not to laugh; there were few people who could pull off the ridiculously large bow in hair look, like Belarus, Liechtenstein, and Seychelles, but Umbrdge was, without a doubt, not one of them.

The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew yet how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be. Iceland already had doubts about the subject, since he had already read the whole book. Having spent about a third of his life putting up with legal bullshit, he could see very clearly that the book was designed to look as if it were teaching you, but was really doing nothing. It was talking, but not saying anything.

"Well, good afternoon!" she said when finally the whole class had sat down.

A few people mumbled "Good afternoon," in reply.

"Tut, tut," said Professor Umbridge. " _That_ simply won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' One more time please. Good afternoon, class!"

"Good aftenoon, Professor Umbridge," they chanted back at her. Iceland added his own touch by instead saying "I don't want to be here, Professor Umbridge," the snide comment being drowned out by the rest of the class. The few that could hear him struggled not to laugh.

"There, now," said Professor Umbridge sweetly. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."

 _'Oh, God,'_ Iceland thought. _'It's going to be one of those teachers, isn't it?'_

Professor Umbridge opened her hand bag, extracted her own wand, which was an unusually short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared at once:

 _ **Defense Against the Dark Arts**_

 _ **A Return to Basic Principles**_

The toad went on to ask about previous teachers, which Iceland ignored, seeing as he was new to the school. The only magic teacher he had ever had was Norway, but recently the Icelandic Magic Council had been requesting he received a 'formal' education (well, there was that one time he had gone to high school about ten years previous, but that was a completely different story on it's own).

Umbridge rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:

 _ **Course aims:**_

 _ **1\. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.**_ Sounded pretty reasonable.

 _ **2\. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can be legally used.**_ Well, the magical laws were vastly different in the Nordic regions than in the UK, so that would be useless

 _ **3\. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.**_ So they would just be reading and taking notes all year then? That meant that since he had already read the whole book, he could just sleep in the class for the whole year.

"Has everybody got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.

"I think we'll try that again," said Professor Umbridge. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply 'Yes, Professor Umbridge,' or 'No, Professor Umbridge.' So has everyone got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge," rang through the room.

 _'Kill me now_ _,'_ Iceland thought desperately.

"Good," said Professor Umbridge. "I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners.' There will be no need to talk."

Professor Umbridge left the blackboad and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher's desk, observing them all closely with her pouchy toad's eyes. Iceland ignored the instructions and decided instead to start writing his reply to Finland and Hong Kong.

 _Dear Tino (and Berwald),_

 _I'm sorry that I didn't tell you were I was going and that I lied to you. The reason for that was we didn't want Lukas knowing I was going to a magic school, and you know how offended he would be at that. The SMG had been pressuring me to get a formal magical education (Lukas would just get upset, thinking that he hadn't taught me well enough), and they told Denmark about it, telling him to figure it out. So yeah, that's how this all happened. And you're kind of a worry wart anyways, so don't worry about it._

 _My first Hogsmeade weekend is in October, on the—_

"It is NOT a lie!" shouted Harry. "I saw him, I fought him!"

Iceland slowly lifted his head back up, trying not to sigh. _One day with out any drama, that's all I ask for._

"Detention, Mr. Potter!" said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. "Tomorrow evening. Five o' clock. My office. I repeat, _this is a lie_. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside of class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, 'Basics for Beginners.'"

Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk again. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated.

"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?" Harry asked, his voice shaking.

There was a collective intake of breath of from the class. They stared avidly from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face.

"Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," she said coldly.

"It was murder," said Harry. "Voldemort killed him and you know it."

Professor Umbridge's face was quite blank. For a moment Iceland thought she was going to scream at Harry. Then she said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, "Come here, Mr. Potter, dear."

He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and Hermione and up to the teacher's desk. The whole class was holding it's breath.

Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink, and started scribbling, hunched over. Nobody spoke. After a minute or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could not open it.

"Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear," said Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to Harry.

He took it from her without saying a word, turned on his heel, and left the room, not even looking back, and slammed the classroom door shut behind him.

Iceland frowned. This year wasn't going to be miserable, it was going to be positively _torturous_.

* * *

 **Islanti = Iceland**

 **Ruotsi = Sweden**

 **Tanska = Denmark**

 **Taika Koulu = Magic School**

 **Skotlannin = Scotland**

 **Norja = Norway**

 **Koulunkäynti = Education**

 **Norjan Kieli Koulu = Norwegian Magic School**

 **Pietari = Peter**

 **Vinterkriegen = Winter War**

 **Røv = Ass**

 **shàngdì zǔzhòu = god damn bitching**

 **taqajak angut = stupid man**

 ** _ **YMMÄRRÄTKÖ = DO YOU UNDERSTAND**_**

 **And that is Galdrastafir: Chapter 9! I hope you enjoyed (sorry not much happened in this chapter), and I'm sorry this is so late. I wrote most of this chapter one day while I was home sick from school, and then I got caught up in homework and school project and tests, so it sat unfinished for two weeks, but it's finally here!**

 **I've been going through old chapters recently and cringing at some of the spelling errors and grammar mistakes I have made. It's like; Sometimes I English very well but sometimes no.**

 **I also want to clarify some things: the OC's in this story, Greenland and Faroe Islands, are not going to play any major role in this story. Also, Faroe Islands is technically older than Iceland, but due to much smaller land size, less development, and is still considered part of the Danish Realm, will be physically and mentally younger than Iceland in this story (also, Iceland was an independent commonwealth for like 300 years before joining part with the Norwegian Kingdom, which then joined part with Denmark and Sweden [and by extension, Finland] in the Kalmar Union). The title Galdrastafir and the necklace Iceland obtained in chapter 3 is not going to be some sort of huge plot twist at the end, but it is going to become an essential part of how Iceland uses magic. Someone asked, so I decided to answer for every one ^-^**

 **Anyways, until the next chapter; Hasta la Pasta**


	10. Chapter 10

Iceland sat comfortably in fron of the blazing fireplace, legs thrown over the arms of the puffy chair he was seated in, reading a large book that laid open on his lap ( _Magiks and Runes of the Dark Ages_ , luckily in Norwegian [why was it he could never find the rarer books in Icelandic?], he didn't think any of the Gryffindors would take kindly to his reading of Dark Magic [they were called the dark ages for a reason]). He glanced up as footsteps appeared in the common room, noticing the Golden Trio that had appeared through the portrait hole. Crookshanks uncoiled himself from the armchair across from Iceland and trotted to meet them, purring loudly, and when Harry, Ron, and Hermione took three chairs at the fireside he leapt lightly into Hermione's lap and curled up there like a furry ginger cushion. Iceland returned his eyes to the yellowed pages in front of himself.

" _How_ can Dumbledore have let this happen?" Hermione cried out suddenly, making Harry, Ron, and Iceland jump; Crookshanks leapt off her, looking affronted. She pounded the arms of her chair in fury, so that bits of stuffing leaked out of the holes. "How can he let that terrible woman teach us? And in our O.W.L. year too!" Iceland let out a breath of air, sounding half annoyed and half exasperated. Why were British people so _emotional_? He suddenly felt a wave of appreciation for England, glad that the nation seemed to be nowhere near as melodramatic as his people.

"Well, we've never had great Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, have we?" said Harry. "You know what it's like, Hagrid told us, nobody wants the job, they say it's jinxed." They also said the world was flat, and the turned out to be wrong, didn't they?

"Yes, but to employ someone who's actually refusing to let us do magic! _What's_ Dumbledore playing at?"

"And she's trying to get people to spy for her," said Ron darkly. "Remember when she said she wanted us to come and tell her if we hear anyone saying You-Know-Who's back?"

"Of course she's here to spy on us all, that's obvious, why else would Fudge have wanted her to come?" snapped Hermione.

"Don't start arguing again," said Harry wearily, as Ron opened his mouth to retaliate. "Can't we just... Let's just do that homework, get it out of the way..."

Sighing, Iceland continued to ignore the trio for a little while longer, he gave up on making any further progress on his book when other students came filtering in from the Great Hall, that noise distracting him too much to truly appreciate the text. He dropped the heavy tome into his schoolbag, switching it out for a few pieces of paperwork he had not yet completed (He had already completed the assigned essays, having a natural affinity for writing, and responded to his mail). As he scribbled scraps of information and numbers on a separate piece of paper, placing signatures and notes when needed, he listened in the back of his head to Hermione scold the Weasley twins.

"Fék matar?" Iceland jolted at the words that suddenly sounded in his ears, relaxing as he felt a soft weight on his head. It was simply Mr. Puffin.

"Hér," Iceland replied, feeding the puffin a small licorice wheel that he procured from his bag. "En ég var að búast við þér að fá mat í mikla sal."

"Já, ég gerði það, en þú varst ekki þarna svo þeir tóku mig fyrir a villtur fugl eftir smá stund. Þeir gerðu ekki einu sinni lakkrís!" Mr. Puffin replied snarkily. Without looking, Iceland gave the bird a sharp jab, effectively cutting off the argument.

"Bara fara að segja að tvíburarnir lykilorð. Á ensku, sérstaklega," Iceland ordered the bird, ignoring the annoyed grumbles and insults he received as Mr. Puffin flapped off. He placed the papers in his lap into his schoolbag, slinging it over his shoulder with the decision to go to sleep. As he was walking up the stairs h heard one of the twins shout after him:

"Emil, is your bird bilingual or something?" Iceland let a small smile crawl onto his face as Mr. Puffin resettled himself upon his head.

"Multilingual, actually!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"It's not even normal that it _can_ talk!" Iceland paused to turn back around and peek his head out of the stairway.

"He. Not it. You could at least thank him," he snapped before walking back up the staircase with a shouted "Thanks, Bird!" ringing up after them.

* * *

The following day dawned just as leaden and rainy as the previous one.

"I'm in England. I'll just have to get used to it, I guess," Iceland muttered to himself in Icelandic as he glanced out the window, placing his needed books into his bag for the day.

"Are we seriously staying here for the whole year?" Mr. Puffin asked from where he was preening upon Iceland's pillow. "I mean, you're alright I guess, but the humans in this school are practically all British, with only one or two Irishmen, and every single one of the them is prissy as hell, not to mention most are sheltered and quite a few are spoiled. Most all of them take everything for granted, and I fucking swear, if I —"

"Don't worry about it," Iceland interrupted the puffin, hefting his bag over his shoulder (' _God, are these robes uncomfortable. And unpractical,'_ he thought to himself as he once again almost tripped over the hem of the robes once more. _'At least those dress shoes everybody else wears aren't required,'_ Iceland's thoughts continued, glancing down appreciatively at his comfortable white boots.). "We have a winter break halfway through the year. But if it really bothers you that much, you could act owl and deliver my mail for me..."

"... I think I can live with this..." Mr. Puffin muttered, settling himself into Iceland's hair (the animal was there so often he had been asked more than once if he was some sort of twisted hat or something), shuddering at the thought of having to fly all the way down to Africa, or go to the 'Cactus head's' house (he had almost been decapitated more than once by that axe). Iceland hummed in acknowledgement, knowing he had won the argument.

Now, Iceland had always seemed a morning person to most people, being able to get up ridiculously early on most days, always being the first to the office (before he was... You know... forced to go to school.), generally being the first to rise at about five thirty AM (Finland used to think he was invincible, being able to wake so early [the nation practically _lived_ off of coffee]). But try to wake him up early on a weekend? Hahaha, that's cute. Dead asleep until around one PM. Good luck with that (he would take your head off if woken any earlier). Therefore, being up so early, he was the first student in the Great Hall.

"Good Morning, Mr. Steilsson," Dumbledore greeted from the head of the staff table, with a few other teachers being there and mildly awake (except for Snape, who was sitting there wide awake. He reminded Iceland one of those stone gargoyles on the outside of Gringotts).

"Og góðan daginn að þér eins vel, prófessor Dumbledore," Iceland responded (forgetting to switch back to English), giving a respectful nod of his head as moved towards the Gryffindor table as Dumbledore gave a soft laugh, that kind that reminded Iceland of wind chimes.

"English, my boy. Sadly, and I believe that I might speak for all staff at this institution when I say this, but none of us old professors are as well versed in languages as you are," he chuckled, making Iceland flush red with embarrassment. He liked to speak English when possible around other countries (or in this case, humans), slightly shy about his thick accent (which he tried his hardest to suppress) and hard to understand language.

"Apologies, Professor Dumbledore," Iceland said looking off to the side before a small smile slid onto his face. "And you're not _that_ old, I must say." Dumbledore laughed once more, as if Iceland had just repeated some inside joke that was between the two (which, to be honest, it kind of was). Iceland shook his head at the man before piling a few waffles upon his plate (okay, English people couldn't cook [Mrs. Weasley was an exception], that's for sure, but the house-elves in the UK, despite how badly they were treated [in his honest opinion], could cook almost as well as a gourmet chef!).

"Ég held að ég skilji sækni Belgíu fyrir þessum hlutum núna," Iceland mumbled after taking a large bite of waffle. Mr. Puffin 'laughed' (it didn't really sound like laughing, but he didn't really know what else to label it), scanning the table for anything he found appetizing. Eventually giving up on his search for fish, he just swooped down and claimed one Iceland's waffles for himself, pulling it to a separate corner of the plate.

"Er ég bara mat skammtari fyrir þig?" Iceland grumbled, pulling one more waffle onto his plate to compensate for the lost one. It was promptly stolen by a certain bird. Taking a deep breath, he let out a long, extremely annoyed sigh.

"Augljóslega," Mr. Puffin responded in between bites. Iceland slammed his head onto the table, causing all the utensils within a few feet of himself to rattle, and a few goblets wobbled (one even tipped over!). From the staff table, he could hear a few of them wince at the loud thump his head had generated.

It wasn't even six thirty and he was already one hundred fifty percent done with life.

* * *

Iceland decided that he liked Neville.

Once it was a more reasonable hour for normal people, other students had started filtering into the hall, and for some reason Iceland couldn't understand (Mr. Puffin had been hissing at anybody who came close), Neville had decided to sit across from him. The boy was curious, just like the Golden Trio (who had groggily walked right past him), but if he asked a question and Iceland gave a shifty answer or changed the subject, he seemed to be able to actually take a hint and wouldn't mention it again. The two had talked all the way to Charms, sitting next to next other to continue their conversation on magical plants until the bell rung.

Professor Flitwick spent the first fifteen minutes lecturing the class on the importance of O.W.L.s.

"What you must remember," said little Professor Flitwick squeakily, perched on a pile of books so that he could see over the top of his desk, "is that these examinations may influence your futures for many years to come!" _'Yes, many years indeed,'_ Iceland thought. "If you have not already given serious thought to your careers now is the time to do so." _'You say that as if I have a choice_ _.'_ "And in the meantime, I'm afraid, we shall be working harder than ever to ensure that you all do yourselves justice!"

They than began reviewing Summoning Charms. Iceland awkwardly grabbed his wand, not used to having a conduit for magic (sure, he didn't use it horribly often, but if he did, it was generally wandless. If he did use a conduit, it was usually a galdrastafir, which were drawn or carved, not [commonly] held), and pointed it at his Charms textbook, which laid across the room. Pausing for a second to relax, he drew up a clear image of the textbook in his mind and concentrated upon it. Flawlessly replicating the motion Professor Flitwick had demonstrated a few minutes previous, he clearly stated the spell, pouring all of his magical intent into the single word: **_"Accio."_**

It worked.

A little too well.

The heavy text flew across the room to Iceland, as it was supposed to, but it flew at a speed that was far faster than the pace of his fellow classmates, and it didn't stop. Which was the problem. It bowled straight into Iceland's stomach, continuing to push and slamming the nation into the desk behind where stood (it had moved back a few inches). Letting out a breathy cough, he slid to floor, where the textbook then plopped into his lap. The class was dead silent for a good five seconds before everybody burst into laughter.

"My intestines..." he wheezed, graciously accepting a hand that a giggling Neville offered him. Iceland doubled over, coughing. It caused the class to laugh more, Neville joining them, but he stopped when he noticed the nation had been wheezing a little too long to be normal (lung problems from heavy volcanic activity, remember?).

"Professor Flitwick?" Neville called over the laughter of the class, which was gradually toning down back into mindless chatter as everybody got back on task. The stubby teacher squeezed through the students to reach them.

"Yes? Do you need any help, Mr. Longbottom?" Neville opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Puffin had flown from Iceland's shoulder to Flitwick's, saying someting to the man that neither Iceland nor Neville could hear over the volume of the students. "I see..." Professor Flitwick said as Mr. Puffin flew back to Iceland. "Mr. Longbottom, I think it best that you take Mr. Steilsson to the hospital wing." Neville looked worried as he helped Iceland back up (whose coughing fits had somewhat toned down to an occasionaly wheeze by that point, but his chest was still shaking with silent coughs). Together the two headed to the hospital wing, where Madame Pomfrey shooed Neville out before treating the heavy bruises that had appeared on Iceland's front and back. She also kindly treated the cut that he had received a month previous, which, for reasons he was still debating, had not healed on it's own.

She had looked questioningly at the scars that crisscrossed Iceland's torso, but he gave the usual excuse of 'extreme sports'. After one last look over for any internal injuries, she kicked him out of the hospital wings muttering about 'irresponsible youths and their dangerous sports...'

* * *

Iceland caught up to Neville (who had kindly grabbed his bag for him) just outside of the Transfiguration classroom, and sat together in the back of the classroom, being some of the last students in. The lecture Professor Flitwick had given them in Charms was the same, if not worse, in Transfiguration.

"You cannot pass an O.W.L.," said Professor McGonagall grimly, "without serious application, practice and study. I see no reason why everybody in this class should not achieve and O.W.L. in Transfiguration as long as they put in the work." Neville made a sad little disbelieving noise. "Yes, you too, Longbottom," said Professor McGonagall. "There's nothing wrong with your work except lack of confidence. So... today we are starting Vanishing Spells. These are easier than Conjuring spells, which you would not usually attempt until N.E.W.T. level, but they are still among the most difficult magic you will be tested on in your O.W.L."

Remembering what had happened in Charms, he decided to try and channel as little magic as possible into the spell. Wrapping his hand around the magical twig as lightly as he could without it falling to the floor, he pointed it at his snail, which was lazing around in a small circle on his desk. With next to no magical intent placed upon the words, he muttered: **_"Evanesco."_**

The snail disappeared. Along with about half of his notes. Looking at the place where it had once been questioningly, he raised his hand. For getting it on the first try, he was awarded ten points for Gryffindor and a glare from Hermione, who had only gotten it on the third try. Lucky him.

* * *

The day had become cool and breezy, and, as they walked down the sloping lawn toward the cabin on the edge of the Forbidden Forest (creative.), they felt the occasional drop of rain on their faces. Professor Grubby-Plank stood waiting for the class some ten yards from the cabin's front door, a long trestle table in front of laden with many twigs.

"Everyone here?" barked Professor Grubby-Plank once all the Slytherins and Gryffindors had arrived. "Let's crack on then — who can tell me what these things are called?"

She indicated the heap of twigs in front of her. Hermione's hand shot into the air. Iceland could hear a shriek from behind as the twigs on the table leapt into the air and revealed themselves to be what looked like tiny pixieish creatures made of wood, each with knobbly brown arms and legs, two twiglike fingers at the end of each hand, and a funny, flat, barklike face in which a pair of beetle-brown eyes glittered.

"Oooooh!" he heard two voices coo from somewhere in the crowd.

"Kindly keep your voices down, girls!" said Professor Grubby-Plank sharply, scattering a handful of what looked like brown rice among the stick creatures, who immediately fell upon the food.

"So — anyone know the names of these creatures? Miss Granger?"

"Bowtruckles," said Hermione. "They're tree-guardians, usually live in wand-trees."

"Five points for Gryffindor," said Professor Grubby-Plank. "Yes, these are bowtruckles and, as Miss Granger rightly says, they generally live in trees whose wood is of wand quality. Anybody know what they eat?"

"Wood lice," said Hermione promptly, which explained why what Iceland had taken for grains of brown rice were moving. "But fairy eggs if they can get them."

"Good girl, take another five points. So whenever you need leaves or wood from a tree in which a bowtruckle lodges, it is wise to have a gift of wood lice ready to distract or placate it. They may not look dangerous, but if angered they will gouge out human eyes with their fingers," _'Oh joy,'_ "which, as you can see, are very sharp and not at all desirable near the eyeballs." _no rlly._ "So if you'd like to gather closer, take a few wood lice and a bowtruckle, you can study them more closely. I want a sketch from each of you with all body parts labeled by the end of the lesson."

Iceland and Neville once again teamed up, having nobody else to work with, and settled upon a patch of grass not too far from the cabin. Neville was calmly sketching the bowtruckle and struggling not to laugh as Iceland fought the tree creature.

"Fight me, you damned stickman," he muttered as the bowtruckle squirmed under neath his grip, attempting to get away.

"Get ég borða það?" Mr. Puffn asked from his perch on Iceland's head, seeming to salviate as he stared at the struggling bowtruckle.

"Ég óska," Iceland muttered in response.

* * *

To nobody's surprise, Professor Sprout started their lesson by lecturing them about the importance of O.W.L.s. Iceland wished the teachers would stop doing that, especially since the O.W.L.s wouldn't affect his career or future in any way. Unless he ended up like Prussia, whose nations was dissolved but was somehow still alive. Tired and smelling strongly of dragon dung, Professor Sprout's preferred fertilizer, the Gryffindors trooped back up to the castle and hour and a half later, none of them talking very much; it had been another long day.

* * *

Iceland decided to skip dinner once more that night, not feeling horribly hungry, instead sitting on the edge of the Black Lake, wand in hand. He was muttering spells under his breath, trying to get the spells to weaken.

"Good evening, Mr. Iceland." The nation in question jumped and whipped his head around, relaxing once he saw that it was only Professor Dumbledore. He muttered a greeting under his breath before going to back to his practicing, causing Dumbledore to chuckle. "You might want to try and spread your magic out, so it is not all diverted to one area."

"What do you mean by that?"Iceland asked, turning to face the old professor.

"You understand how England always seems to mess up spells, correct?" He nodded. "This is just a theory, but I believe that nations store much more magic within their bodies than normal humans, so preforming normal powered spells is much more difficult to personifications than it is for humans, with too much magic being diverted to a certain outlet. So if you give yourself a way to spread your magic about when casting a spell, I believe that you would have more success than if you forced all magic into a single spell." Iceland turned his head back to lake giving deep thought to what Dumbledore had said. "England does not do this, so therefore all of his energy is focused upon one point, causing a malfunction within the spell, or causing it to become more powerful than necessary and do more than it was supposed to." Iceland turned back to ask a question.

"Well, what do y—" he paused. The whole field around him was empty, and Iceland was fairly sure you couldn't apparate within school grounds. "I'm going crazy..." he muttered to himself as he turned back to the lake. _'But it's an interesting idea...'_ he thought to himself, trying to think of ways to divert magic elsewhere when he was using a spell. He fingered the chain around his neck, giving it a sharp yank to pull out the necklace that Sirius had gifted him a month previous. The Iceland spar still gave off a pulsing glow, the colour a soothingly soft white. Turning the three pieces over, he read the galdrastafir inscribed upon each of the bases. _'Just maybe...'_

Letting the necklace fall back against his chest, he stood up and held his wand towards the lake, a simple spell in mind. Pouring close to all of his magical reserves into the crystals that hung around his neck, his body felt almost a million time lighter. The glow of the Iceland spar intensified, casting a ghostly reflection upon the surface of the lake. Iceland gave a small smile.

 _ **"Alarte Ascendare."**_ A small twirl of water rose from the surface of the lake, swirling through the air until it stopped a few seconds later, crashing back down towards the lake. A few drops landed upon Iceland's face from the splash created. A smile graced his lips. Pulling his magic back from the necklace, he decided to see how far he could push the spell. With more confidence in his voice than any other times previous, he repeated the spell:

 ** _"ALARTE ASCENDARE!"_** Before Iceland could even react, a geyser of water shot up from the lake. A look of pure wonder and joy spread across Iceland's features, the height of the water reminding him of Geysir back in his own country. He chuckled as a few sprays of hot water splashed against his body.

Maybe the year would get better.

* * *

 **Fék matar? = Get any food?**

 **Hér = Here**

 **En ég var að búast við þér aðfá mat í mikla sa = But I was expecting you to eat in the Great Hall (Or something along those lines, the translator was fighting me)**

 **Já, ég gerði það, en þú varst ekki þarna svo þeir tóku mig fyrir a villtur fugl eftir smá stund. Þeir gerðu ekki einu sinni lakkrís! = Yes, I did, but you were not there, so they took me for a wild bird after a while. They did not even have licorice!**

 **Bara fara að segja að tvíburarnir lykilorð. Á ensku, sérstaklega = Just go tell the twins the passwords. In English, specifically**

 **Og góðan daginn að þér eins vel, prófessor Dumbledore = Good morning to you as well, Professor Dumbledore**

 **Ég held að ég skilji sækni Belgíu fyrir þessum hlutum núna = I think I understand Belgium's affinity for these things now**

 **Er ég bara mat skammtari fyrir þig? = Am I just a food dispenser to you?**

 **Augljóslega = Obviously/Clearly**

 **Get ég borða það? = Can I eat it?**

 **Ég óska = I wish**

 **I am extremely sorry this chapter took so long to get out! I kept putting it off until later because I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted to do with this chapter, and I kept being distracted by other things (I've been working on new fanfictions and ideas, and I hope to post one of them soon!). Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter (even though not much happened), as that is what I strive for with this story! I'm hoping to pick up the pace of the plot shortly, considering that it's been ten chapters and we're only on the seconds day of Hogwarts.**

 **On another note, I can't believe I've already written and posted ten chapters of Galdrastafir! When posted the first few chapters, I hadn't been expecting it to get as much support as it did, and now it's already been up for over five months (time really flies, doesn't it?)! I honestly cannot thank all of you for the amount of support you've given me across the course of the past nine chapters (you're nicer to me than most of the people at my school), and for how dedicated some of you have been to letting me know what did and did not like about each chapter, helping me improve my writing as this story progressed, with some even correcting major errors I've made with foreign languages and grammar! YOu are all so forgiving when I take ridiculously long to release chapters, even when many of those chapters are fillers, you've continued to support this story! Thank you all!**

 ***coughs awkwardly* now that that sappy moment is over, until next chapter, Hasta la Pasta!**


	11. Chapter 11

**MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM**

 **DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER "HIGH INQUISITOR"**

 _In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic passed legislation giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

 _'The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at Hogwarts for some time,' said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley. 'He is now responding to concerns voiced by anxious parents, who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve'_

 _This is not the first time in recent weeks Fudge has used new laws to effect improvements at the Wizarding school. As recently as August 30th Educational Decree Twenty-two was passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person._

 _'That's how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,' said Weasley last night. 'Dumbledore couldn't find anyone so the Minister put in Umbridge and of course, she's been an immediate success, totally revolutionizing the teaching of defense against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what's really happening at Hogwarts.'_

 _It is this last function that the Ministry has now formalized with the passing of Educational Decree Twenty-three, which creates the new position of 'Hogwarts High Inquisitor.'_

 _'This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get to grips with what some are calling the "falling standards" at Hogwarts,' said Weasley. 'The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post, and we are delighted to say that she has accepted.'_

 _The Ministry's new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts._

 _'I feel much easier in my mind now that I know that Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation,' said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from his Wiltshire mansion last night. "Many of us with our children's best interests at heart have been concerned about some of Dumbledore's eccentric decisions i the last few years and will be glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation.'_

 _Among those 'eccentric decisions' are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described in this newspaper, which have included the hiring of werewolf Remus Lupin, half-giant Rubeus Hagrid, and delusional ex-Auror 'Mad-Eye' Moody._

 _Rumors abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, once Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing the prestigious school of Hogwarts._

 _'I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step toward ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose confidence,' said a Ministry insider last night._

 _Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts._

 _'Hogwarts is a school, not an Outpost of Cornelius Fudge's office,' said Madam Marchbanks. 'this is a further disgusting attempt to discredit Albus Dumbledore.' (For a full account of Madam Marchbanks' alleged links to subversive goblin group, turn to page 17)._

* * *

Iceland let out an annoyed 'tch' sound as he folded the newspaper and downed the rest of his pumpkin juice (an acquired taste, he found out), the tilt of is head causing Mr. Puffin to squawk in protest. He resigned himself to watching this situation play out, having no political sway in the United Kingdom (but he could probably get Hong Kong to complain about it to England until he did something about it, but he knew the Brit could be reluctant to interfere in human affairs). It made sense that it was a Monday.

* * *

"Oh, you do, do you?" Said Professor Umbridge, forgetting to whisper and straightening up. "Well, I'm afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard's opinion, and not yours that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger."

Iceland looked up from the parchment he had been sketching on, Hong Kong having engaged a game of mail chess.

"But—" Hermione began.

"That is enough," said Professor Umbridge. she walked back to the front of the class and stood before them, all the jauntiness she had shown at the beginning of the lesson gone. Iceland briefly wondered if she had ever taken one of the those courses that taught teachers how to teach and communicate with their teachers. He assumed not. "Miss Granger, I am going to take five points from Gryffindor House."

There was an outbreak of muttering at this.

"What for?" Harry asked angrily.

 _'Aaaaand here we go again,'_ Iceland thought blandly, wondering if he actually needed to get his O.W.L.s or if he could just skip town and go on vacation with Hong Kong like he told everyone he was going to. It was certainly a tempting idea.

"For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions," said Professor Umbridge smoothly. "I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand very little. Your previous teachers in this subject may have allowed you more license, but as none of them — with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropraite subjects — would have passed a Ministry inspection—"

"Yeah, Quirrell was a great teacher," said Harry loudly, "there was just that minor drawback of him having Lord Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head."

 _'It's like starting to watch a movie half-way through: you have a vague idea of what's going on, but all these specfic details getting mentioned go right over your head,'_ Iceland thought as he decided to ask about it later.

This pronouncement was followed by one of he louder silences he had ever heard. Then —

"I think another week's detentions would do you some good, Mr. Potter," said Umbridge sleekly.

 _'But sometimes it's like watching a soap opera,'_ Iceland thought with a small smile.

* * *

The best part of his week began the next day, when he walked into Transfiguration and saw Professor Umbridge and her clipboard sitting in a corner. Iceland hadn't been in very many of Professor McGonagall's classes, and had been far to annoyed by the disappearance of his notes in the first to pay attention, but he had the feeling that this one would be one to remember.

Professor McGonagall marched into the room without giving the slightest indication that she knew Professor Umbridge was there.

"That will do," she said and silence fell immediately. "Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the homework — Miss Brown, please take this box of mice — don't be silly, girl, they won't hurt you — and hand one to each student —"

" _Hem, hem_ ," said Professor Umbridge, employing the same silly little cough she had used to interrupt Dumbledore one the first night of term. Professor McGonagall ignored her. Seamus handed back Iceland's essay; Iceland took it without looking at him, and hummed contently at the emerald _E_ shining from the top of the paper.

"Right then, everyone, listen closely — Dean Thomas, if you do that to the mouse again I will put you in detention — most of you have now successfully vanished your snails and even those who were left with a certain amount of shell have the gist of the spell. Today, we shall be —"

" _Hem, hem_ ," said Professor Umbridge.

 _"Yes?"_ said Professor McGonagall, turning round, her eyebrows so close together they seemed to form one long, severe line. Iceland smiled. This was much more entertaining than UN meetings (after Germany had taken charge, of course).

"I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec —"

"Obviously I received it, or I would have asked you what you are doing in my classroom," said Professor McGonagall, turning her back firmly on Professor Umbridge. Many of the students exchanged looks of glee. "As I was saying, today we shall be practicing the altogether more difficult vanishment of mice. Now, the Vanishing Spell —"

 _"Hem, hem."_

"I wonder," said Professor McGonagall in cold fury, turning on Professor Umbridge, "how you expect to gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when I am talking."

Professor Umbridge looked as though she had just been slapped in in face. She did not speak, but straightened the parchment on her clipboard and began scribbling furiously. Looking supremely unconcerned, Professor McGonagall addressed the class once more.

"As I was saying, the Vanishing spell become more difficult with the complexity of the animal to be vanished. The snail, as an invertebrate, does not present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a mammal, offers a much greater one. This is not, therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind on dinner. So — you know the incantation, let me see what you can do..."

Iceland grinned as McGonagall allowed them to start practicing on the mice. It was almost a sitcom.

Professor Umbridge took many more not while she sat in her corner, and when Professor McGonagall finally told them all to pack away, rose with a grim expression on her face.

As they filed out of the classroom, Iceland saw Professor Umbridge approach the teacher's desk, and deliberately fell back to eavesdrop. He saw Harry, Hermione, and Ron do the same.

"How long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?" Professor Umbridge asked.

"Thirty-nine years this December," said Professor McGonagall brusquely, snapping her bag shut.

Professor Umbridge made a note.

"Very well" she said, "you will receive the results of your inspection in ten days' time."

"I can hardly wait," said Professor McGonagall in a coldly indifferent voice, and she strode off towards the door. "Hurry up, you four," she added, sweeping Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Iceland before her. He smiled. Much better than a UN meeting.

* * *

It was about three weeks later (three weeks of Umbridge, classes, homework, paperwork, and reading [really the only bright spot] later) when Neville came bounding up to him after breakfast saying that there was going to be a meeting at the Hog's Head to do something about getting a better Defense Against the Dark Arts education, asking if he would with. Not really having anything better to do, he agreed.

That's how, on his first Hogsmeade visit, he found himself on a side street at the top which was a small inn. A battered wooden sign hung from a rusty bracket over the door, with a picture upon it of a wild boar's severed head leaking blood onto the white cloth around it. The sign creaked in the wind as Iceland and Neville, along with Dean and Lavender, approached.

"Well that's quaint," Iceland muttered as he lead the way inside. The Hog's Head bar comprised one small dingy and very dirty room that smelled strongly of something that might have been goats. The bay windows were so encrusted with grime that very little daylight could permeate the rom, which was lit instead with the stubs of candles sitting on rough wooden tables. The floor seemed at first glance to be earthly, though as Iceland stepped onto it he realized that there was stone beneath what seemed to be the accumulated filth of centuries.

"Welcome to 1784 Iceland," he said, glancing around at the filthy room. Before he could do anything else, the door of the pub opened. A thick band of dusty sunlight split the room in two for a moment and then vanished, blocked by the incoming rush of a crowd of people.

Iceland couldn't recognize most of the people, still being new to the school, the sudden influx of people was rounded up by Fred and George Weasley with their friend Lee Jordan, all three of whom were carrying large paper bags crammed with Zonko's merchandise. On their way past, George subtly slipped Iceland a folded piece of parchment, which he tucked into his pocket as Fred approached the bar.

The barman had frozen in the act of wiping out a glass with a rag so filthy it looked as though it had never been washed. Possibly he had never seen his pub so full.

"Hi," said Fred, counting his companions quickly. "Could we have... twenty-six butterbeers, please?"

The barman glared at him for a moment, then, throwing down his rag irritably as though he had been interrupted in something very important, he started passing up dusty butterbeers from under the table.

"Cheers," said Fred handing them out. "Cough up, everyone, I haven't got enough gold for all of these..."

Iceland laughed as he took the butterbeer from Fred, dropping the appropriate amount of coins into his hand as he passed. Iceland quickly read the paper he had ben handed by George, which was a plan for a prank that asked for criticism of different points. Iceland filed it away to look at later and turned to pay attention as Hermione started speaking.

"Well... erm... well, you know why you're here. Erm... well, Harry here had the idea — I mean" —Harry had thrown her a sharp look — "I had the idea — that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defense Against the Dark Arts — and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us" —(Hermione's voice became suddenly much stronger and confident)—"because nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts" — "Hear, hear," said some kid whose name escaped Iceland, and Hermione looked heartened —"well, I thought it would be a good if we, well, took matters into our own hands."

Iceland smiled as the meeting went on, everybody starting to conform to the idea of a defense club. It was most likely the start of something great as everybody signed the paper, that was both a sign of membership and somewhat a disclosure form.

As he exited the Hog's Head, he allowed himself a small smile as the cold wind brushed against his face, tousling his silvery hair. Checking his watch, he went off to the Three Broomsticks to meet with Sweden and Finland, having arranged to meet up on his first Hogsmeade weekend.

"Islanti! Täällä!" Iceland turned and smiled as he joined Finland at his table.

"Where's Berwald?" he asked, looking around.

"Peter got sick, so Berwald stayed behind to take care of him. So, how's Hogwarts?" Iceland blinked in surprise, having expected to be scolded in someway for disappearing the way he did.

"Good?" he said questioningly. Finland smiled

"Don't worry, I've already talked to Mathias about it, you're not in trouble," he answered, grinning as he took another sip of what Iceland assumed to be Firewhisky, causing his nose to twitch at the burn. Before he could continue, two twin heads of ginger hair appeared on both sides of Iceland.

"So Emmy–"

"—Who's this?" they asked, looking at the other Nordic curiously. Finland smiled and held out his hand.

"Tino Väinämöinen," Finland chirped, shaking their hands. "And you are?"

"I'm Fred—"

"And I'm George."

"We're twins."

"I can see that," Finland laughed. Iceland paled as he felt his stomach twist sharply and he slapped a hand over his mouth.

"So you're the one—"

"Who sent Emmy—"

"That Howler?" Finland blushed.

"Yes, I was a bit angry at the time."

"It was totally awesome."

"You made the Great Hall go silent."

"Quite the feat."

"Right you are, Gred." Finland laughed at the twin's way of talking. Iceland started coughing, a pained look crossing his face. Finland stopped short.

"Emil? What's wrong?" Iceland looked up and made eye contact with the other nations as his coughing slowly died down. Iceland took hand from his mouth and gasped a deep breath. The twins caught him as he bean to slump forward.

"Grímsfjall," he murmured, uncurling his hand, which was blackened by ash. Another round of coughing abused his small frame, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth before his vision turned black and his body went limp.

* * *

 **Islanti! Täällä! — Icleand! Here!**

 **I am so unbelievably sorry about this story's unannounced hiatus. I promise to never take this long again, or if I do I'll at least warn you guys first. I want to see Galdrastafir though to the end, and I hope you aren't too mad at me for taking so long to update (but if you are you're completely justified in your anger).**

 **Now, I know this chapter ended on a cliffhanger (I hate those too), but I didn't think it would all work together in one chapter and I had promised to get this chapter up, and today was my deadline. Now, the eruption Iceland is going through didn't actually happen (There were no eruptions in Iceland in 1995), but I was going to base it on one that occurred in 1996, but due to lack of information, it'll actually be based off of the 2011 Grímsfjall eruption. I just really wanted to put an eruption in my story, but since historically there were none, I kinda just rearranged history a bit :)**

 **Now I want to thank everybody who reviewed wile I was gone and those who encouraged me to keep going and never lost faith in this story. So to everybody reading this, thank you.**

 **Until next chapter (which won't take 15 years to get up), Hasta la Pasta!**


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